Sparrow
by Just A Little Birdy
Summary: Imogen Haylock has been lied to her whole life. Clint Barton is determined to set her straight. After all, he always did have a soft spot for kids like her, no matter where their loyalties lie.
1. The Mission

**Disclaimer: I own nothing that's been in an actual movie.**

* * *

**1: The Mission**

"Haylock!"

The deep, commanding voice of her handler rang through the cold hallway, stopping Imogen in her tracks. Behind her, she could hear the moaning and coughing of the punk good-for-nothing kid she'd just dropped to the floor and the footsteps of the three people who'd caught her leaving him there. Two sets were quick and light, as much of a threat to her as a couple of feathers. The other steps were heavy, confident. Angry. And they would belong to the person who offered her the most trouble; Agent Donoghue, the man supposedly in charge of her.

Mouthing a curse, she turned abruptly to face the newcomers. "What's up, chief?" she asked, voice as cold and hard as the concrete walls around them.

"Don't play around, Haylock," he growled in response, towering over her and giving her that murderous sort of look that would have any other agent trembling in their boots. "What have I told you about starting fights?"

"He was asking for it."

"When you're involved, no one is asking for it."

They stood there, eye to eye, and silently fuming while the injured boy limped past them, arm thrown over the shoulders of a junior agent. "You'll pay for this," he spat at her as he passed. She spared him a look of absolute contempt, breaking the tension between her and Donoghue.

"Imogen," the handler said when the hall was empty. "You're off training."

She stared at him for a moment, stunned into silence, and then the anger returned, rushing through her like a wildfire and setting her ablaze. "You can't do that! I've barely done anything wrong! You can't kick me out for teaching some stupid kid a lesson!"

"That 'stupid kid' will be missing out on his first mission because of you!" Donoghue thundered. "And he's the third one this week alone! Three young agents, all more promising and easier to work with than you, who are now out of action for several weeks because you couldn't keep your temper!"

"It's not that bad," she returned sullenly. "They could just as easily have been injured in training."

The handler stopped for a moment, taking a deep breath in an effort to calm himself. His face was beet red now, like a cartoon man who was about to explode. "I want you to leave. You're out of control, and until you learn to stop throwing punches and to work with your team, I don't want to see you anywhere near them." She opened her mouth to argue, but he cut her off before she could begin with a sharp, "Quiet!" There was silence for a second as he watched her closely, making sure she wasn't going to start talking again, before he continued.

"It's not just that, Imogen. You're at the bottom of training, barely scraping past on every assessment you've ever had and unwilling to improve your performance. You're argumentative and stubborn, you refuse to follow orders, and you don't play well with anyone else – a vital skill for any agent. I've warned you time and time again that your place here is precarious, but you just don't seem to care enough to fix your attitude and learn to get along with people. There will be no more warnings. I want you off base by dusk. Go to another base, a safe house, a hotel down the road, I don't care; just get out of my sight and stay out of it until I tell you otherwise. Dismissed."

Angrily, she turned and stalked off, wispy blonde curls flying around her face. She didn't even reach the end of the corridor before the alarm went off, the phone in her pocket following it shortly with a loud buzz. She stopped to check the phone, glancing back at Donoghue as she dug the device out of her pocket; the handler was standing in the middle of the hallway looking confused, as if he wasn't sure what an alarm meant or what to do about it. She snorted in disgust. How had someone like him even become a senior agent and handler?

Unlocking it, she glanced down at the text she had just received, almost dropping her phone in surprise. From her brother Will, it was a simple message composed of just two words:

_HAIL HYDRA._

Her mind moved fast as she stuffed the phone back into her pocket and stole another glance at Donoghue. Which side was he on? Surely not HYDRA, not with that confused, stumbling appearance. In any case, it was probably best not to be caught in the same area as him, lest people get the wrong idea. She headed off in the same direction she had been going before, into the maze of halls and rooms that made up the SHIELD base. They were mostly empty down this end of the base, though as she drew closer to the living quarters and main control rooms of the facility she could hear fighting and shouting. The takeover was underway then.

She tried to skirt around the edges of the conflict, knowing it would be bloody and confusing and she could easily be made a target by accident. She didn't know any of the other sleepers here, not in the way her brother would were he based here – he had a knack for know which side was which. It was just another of the many things Imogen was useless at. No matter how she tried to avoid it, the fighting came to her, in the form of Donoghue himself, who apparently had jumped right into it as she had not. He was splattered in blood, his own or someone else's she couldn't tell, and came stumbling down the hall towards her clutching at his shoulder and reeling. At the sight of her, his eyes widened, and he gestured wildly with his one good hand towards the empty corridor behind her.

"Run, girl! Get out of here, before they kill you! Go, go!" He shouted empty words at her but she only moved back a single step, standing steady as two armed men came bearing down on them, one quickly pinning Donoghue and pressing a gun to his forehead. A moment later, the shot rang in the air, deafening in the enclosed space, and the handler's eyes glazed over, his body crumpling to the ground.

They turned to her, weapons fixed and a miss nearly impossible at such point blank range. "Which side?!" one called, voice cold and wary.

"HYDRA!" she returned before the entire question had even left his mouth. "HYDRA," she repeated, slower. "Hail HYDRA!"

They eyed her suspiciously. "Haylock," one said suddenly. "You're the Haylock girl, aren't you? Will Haylock's sister?"

"Yes," she answered, suddenly grateful for her brother's networking skills.

They relaxed, weapons falling away from her. "Hail HYDRA," they both responded, sounding weary. "Stay out of the fight, girl," one advised her. "You'll more likely get killed then anything, and young agents like you are the future of HYDRA." He nodded once in farewell and then both turned back towards their fight, leaving her alone with the body of her handler. For a moment, she gazed at his prone figure and staring eyes, trying to find an ounce of pity or remorse in her to spare for him, but she had felt no love for this man who had just minutes ago taken away the only life she knew and so could find not a single sorrow for him. Instead, she turned and left, happy enough to leave the fighting to the others this time, however much she loved a good fight. The soldiers had been right, she would do nothing but get herself killed out there, and besides, with HYDRA in control? It wouldn't be long at all now before she was moving on to bigger and better things.

* * *

Bigger and better wasn't far away at all – that very afternoon, there was a tap at the door of her quarters. Imogen opened the door to find a nervous-looking young agent standing in the hallway beyond, shuffling his feet nervously. "What?" she asked in no uncertain terms, ready to shut the door in his face if he took too long in answering.

He seemed to sense this, swallowing hard and scrambling for his given message. "Agent Ferson would like to see you in main control," he said hurriedly.

"I'll be there soon," she sighed, and with a tight nod, the boy turned and scurried away as fast as his short legs could carry him. She watched him go, wondering what on earth had made SHIELD or even HYDRA choose him for service, then grabbed a jacket and followed him, grimacing at the SHIELD logo on her shoulder. She'd have to get rid of the jacket, she supposed. A real shame; it was the most comfortable one she owned.

There were several people waiting for her at control, though only one was of immediate interest to her – Ferson, the guy that had apparently taken charge of the base until HYDRA appointed someone permanently. Imogen hadn't met him before but something about him was definitely familiar. She stored it away for later thought, focusing instead on the reason for their meeting.

"Agent Haylock?" Ferson asked, and she nodded. He cast a critical eye over her, frowning. There was a hint of malice in that eye, she noticed, like he had a score to settle. "Your brother has informed us that you are a member of HYDRA and trustworthy. Usually I wouldn't go just off the word of another agent, but given your brother's reputation and record…" He shrugged. "What's really important is this; what do you have to give to HYDRA's noble cause?"

For a moment, she was speechless, trying desperately to scrounge up a suitable answer. What skills did she have? She had never performed particularly well in training, nor made an effort to pay attention to anything but the few lessons that suited her…all she had going for her really was a red-hot temper that she couldn't control. For the first time that she could remember, she felt completely out of her depth. "I…can fight," she said slowly.

"Oh, believe me Miss Haylock, I know you can fight," Ferson said, cutting her off. "I've seen your victims – the one from this morning, for example." His eyes flashed dangerously, and suddenly she remembered why he seemed so familiar – he and the boy who had crossed her that morning were extraordinarily similar in looks and behaviour. Knowing her luck, she'd beaten up the younger brother of her new boss the very day he took over. Her stomach dropped at the thought, at the anger she could now see simmering just below his calm exterior.

"The problem is-" he began to pace then, wandering back and forth across the control room, "-you don't have a very impressive track record here or anywhere, and even your brother can't fix that for you. If I'm right, old Donoghue kicked you out of training just this morning – the only reason you're still here is because of the takeover. You're going to have to work to keep that place though, Haylock, because from where I stand you're a liability to any team we place you on and to the cause."

Imogen's mind moved fast. She had no other life besides HYDRA – she'd been raised in or close to bases all around the world, trained at the academy, been placed here to await her first missions. Her brother was a HYDRA agent, her parents had been sleepers in SHEILD. Hell, if she went far enough back in the family tree, she'd probably find relatives who were original HYDRA agents. Sure, she knew the outside world and how it worked, but this was the life she knew and was trained for. SHIELD had already thrown her away like useless garbage, and that had hurt, but HYDRA giving up on her as well? She wasn't sure what she would do with herself after that.

Mentally, she slapped herself, told herself to pull it together. He hadn't fired her yet. Resolve hardening, she had only one question to ask.

"What do I have to do?"

He smiled, but there was nothing friendly in the gesture. "We have a mark for you. SHIELD agent, gave us the slip initially and tried to make himself scarce but we've got a tracker on him. He's a danger to the entire operation, and needs to be taken out before he gets it in his head to start causing trouble."

"He sounds like a more skilled agent than someone fresh out the academy," she argued. "Why not send someone more experienced, or a whole team of people?"

"A whole team can be easily picked off from a distance. We need someone who can get in close and get him when his back is turned. That's your job. Pretend to be SHIELD, make friends with him. Buy him a drink. Whatever you like, as long as you're discreet."

She nodded slowly. It sounded easy enough. "Where is he now?"

"At a safe house a few miles from here. You'll want to move quickly – we think he's planning to move on in the next few days, and once you leave here you'll be on your own until our communications are back up."

"I'll be gone in ten minutes." She headed for the door, almost escaping the busy room before he called out again.

"You screw this up Haylock, and you're out."

She didn't answer, pulling the door shut firmly behind her and walking away.

* * *

The house her mark had apparently gone to ground in was a large family home in a sleepy town several hours away from the base. It was late at night when she finally pulled into the street and parked a few houses down, and she was bone tired from the action of the day and the drive, wanting nothing more than to go in and get this over with, but she had to do this properly. She'd had no reason to listen to SHIELD, to follow their protocol and let their training turn her into a mindless soldier, but now that HYDRA was in charge, she would have to do this properly. Her own people wouldn't give her false information, and they would give her room to prove herself on her own – none of this team work ethic Donoghue had been inclined to.

Properly would mean doing as Ferson had suggested, getting close to her target and tricking him into relaxing before striking. Easy enough, she supposed, though she was no great shakes at acting. _Just pretend to be on his side,_ Imogen reminded herself. _Easy._

Her phone buzzed loudly, her brother's name flashing up on the screen. Sighing, she brought the phone to her ear, greeting him with her usual deadbeat, "Hey."

"Imogen!" he crowed, altogether too cheerful for her tastes. "You made it through the day then?"

"Yeah," she said, eyes fixed on the house. A light shone through the cracks in a curtain, but there was no sign of movement there or anywhere else. As far as she could tell, the mark hadn't even noticed her arrival. She focused back in on the conversation at hand. "Some more warning would have been nice."

Will laughed. "I'll remember that for next time. I hear you were given a mission?"

"I've got to take out some SHIELD agent who gave us the slip. I'm outside his base now, actually."

"Should I be worried?"

"No. It's a pretty simple mission."

There was a long silence, and she knew immediately that he wasn't convinced. "Alright," he said eventually, the word slow and drawn-out. "Hey, I'll be down to your base in a week or two, see if I can get you moved over here with me, now that you're out of training and all that."

The thought of moving away from Ferson and her so-called 'team' actually made her smile. "That'd be good," she admitted, making him laugh again.

"I'll see what I can do." Faint voices filtered through the line from his end, and he was silent for a long moment as he listened to them. "Hey Immy, I've got to go," he said finally. "Good luck with the mission and all." The line clicked off and she dropped the now silent phone into her lap, studying the house once more. Nothing had moved since she had pulled up, everything just the way a quiet little town like this should be.

Finally, she grabbed her backpack and locked the vehicle she had borrowed from base for this assignment, slipping across and down the street to the house. The door was locked, predictably, but she was adept in lock-picking if nothing else. A flash of fear shot through her as the lock clicked, making her pause and take a deep breath, settling herself before entering the warm house.

Shutting the door, she turned to the rest of the house and stood quietly, listening. Three doors and a hallway led off from the small landing, the door of the front room she had seen lights in earlier standing ajar. She could see a TV inside, playing a movie or something and muttering quietly to whoever was watching it. Was that where her mark was? He didn't seem like much of an agent if he could be caught watching TV.

Softly, she dropped her backpack to the ground and crept towards the living room, peeking around the corner. She only caught a glimpse of the face of her company before pulling back, a knife hissing through the air just centimeters from her head. Flattening herself against the wall, she took a deep breath in an attempt to calm her racing heart and then gathered herself, shifting away from the dangerous doorway and back toward her bag, silently cursing Ferson. She didn't have a gun or anything, just one sharp knife for stabbing that was about as useful in this situation as a needle. She was pretty certain that his throwing skills were impressive – he was probably used to range weapons as a pose to close combat. Plus, Ferson had said something about him being more than capable of picking off a whole team of agents with relative ease.

Imogen didn't have much going for her in this fight. She felt her temper flaring at the very thought of being bested so easily and squashed it – this was too important to lose her cool over. However much she tried to kid herself, she was walking the thin line between life and death right now, and she didn't want to fall to the wrong side when her walk was done. Now wasn't the time for anger. Now was the time for play-acting and manipulation, no matter how outstandingly average she was in that particular field of espionage.

She took another deep breath, resolve hardening and courage finding itself again. "Hello?" she called experimentally, knowing her mark would hear her easily. There was silence; then, the groan of a couch and shuffling of feet. He wasn't keeping silent anymore. A moment later, the man appeared in the gloomy hallway, several years her senior but no doubt just as capable as any young agent. Fierce, storm-grey eyes met hers, testing her strength but she met him head on, not caring for the consequences.

"Who are you?" he demanded finally, their stare-off coming to a draw.

"SHIELD Agent Imogen Haylock," she replied, too lazy to be bothered with a false identity that she would have to keep up. Besides, there was nothing to connect her to HYDRA in any way – he could dig through SHIELD's file dump all he wanted, but all he would find was old records of fights and arguments that hadn't ended her way.

"And how do I know you're not just another HYDRA agent sent to kill me?" he asked, a note of amusement in his voice.

"I have nothing to do with them," she lied, pulling her face into a mask. "I just heard there was a safe house nearby and thought I might crash out here for a while." He still didn't look convinced, so she turned back to her bag, rummaging through the pockets for her SHIELD badge, handing it to him.

"This has no meaning anymore," he stated, tossing it back. He sounded bitter, she noticed – there was no doubt that he was a SHIELD agent.

"Would I have kept it if I was working with HYDRA?" she challenged. "I don't think a SHIELD badge would be welcome in that lot."

He went quiet, considering her argument. It wasn't strong, she knew, but it was better than nothing. Eventually, he sighed and relaxed a fraction. "You're kind of young," he said.

"You're kind of old," she shot back.

His counter was just as quick. "More experienced, don't you mean?"

"I mean what I say."

He laughed. "Alright kid, you can stay. One night only though." He jerked his thumb towards the hall. "Rooms are that way."

His comment irked her. She was twenty three, however young she looked. "I'm not a kid," she said, shouldering her pack and pushing past him. To her surprise, she couldn't stifle the satisfied grin that broke out across her face at the exchange. She might have finally met her match, someone she could go toe to toe with and still end on a good note, rather than yelling and anger and being kicked out of training.

The smile faded as she realised that soon she'd have to kill him.


	2. Kill

**2: Kill**

Imogen woke to the smell of bacon frying, the hissing and sputtering filtering through the wall between her and the kitchen, accompanied by the quiet murmur of a TV. Groaning, she rolled over and buried her face back into her pillow, not ready to face the day or the man she was supposed to get rid of, and soon. She had no idea how she was going to pull it off; she still knew next to nothing about him, save that he was about to kick her out and she was going to have to do something to convince him not to.

Of course, she could just slink away and forget about it all. Unfortunately that wasn't in her nature, and if she did she'd have HYDRA chasing after her day and night looking for revenge. It'd be worse than deserting from the army.

The smells of fresh breakfast persisted, until she could stand it no longer and forced herself to rise, dressing as slowly as she could. Her stomach growling, she chased the promise of bacon and coffee out into the kitchen, sliding into a seat along the breakfast bar. Clint stood on the other side, gulping down coffee like it was air. "Morning kid," he greeted her between swigs, offering her an easy grin.

"Not a kid," she reminded him, helping herself to the bacon and eggs already heaped onto a plate for her. His own plate sat next to the coffee pot, a great deal more breakfast left than there was coffee. It wasn't hard to see where his priorities were.

"Sure." His reply was nonchalant and easy-going, and just a little bit annoying.

"You know, you never told me your name," she said between mouthfuls, looking for a new subject.

His easy, joking grin disappeared, turning guarded and just a little uncomfortable as he weighed his options. "Clint," he said finally.

"That's it?" she asked. "Just Clint?"

He nodded. "That's all you need to know."

"Right."

They fell silent. Imogen took the chance to focus in on the TV perched up on top of the fridge, showing one of those typical morning talk shows that usually could never catch her attention for more than a few seconds. This morning was different. They were in the middle of a segment about SHIELD, showing footage of three helicarriers firing on each other and crashing into what she recognised as the Triskellion. She'd totally missed it the day before, but she had a hunch that it had something to do with the rise of HYDRA. Both organisations had fallen apart, she learnt now. Pockets of SHIELD and HYDRA both were scattered all over the globe, covers and networks blown.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, just once, indicating a text. She pulled it out with her free hand and opened up her messages. _Who's your mark?_ It was Will, getting just a little too far into her business as usual. She dismissed it, tucking the phone back into her pocket and resolving to deal with it later. Feeling eyes on her, she looked up and found herself caught in the stormy grey gaze of Clint, unable to look away. His level, calculating gaze was enough to make her feel nervous – could he see right through her, to the imposter beyond?

"You still look to young to be in this business," he said finally, looking away a moment and releasing her.

"I'm twenty three," she pointed out, not one to beat around the bush. "That's old enough."

"Still pretty young."

"Yeah well, I'm good at what I do."

"What clearance level?"

She hesitated. None, was really the answer. Technically, she wasn't even an agent – never even been given a chance out on a mission. "Three," she lied. Her phone buzzed again, muffled by her pocket.

"Get out in the field much?" he asked.

"No." Text message number three. "I'm mostly on extraction." Four. Silence fell over the kitchen for a minute. "So I guess you want me to leave soon," she said finally, remembering his deal the night before.

Clint hesitated, looking like he might just be reconsidering. "It's for the best," he replied, face falling into a frown. "Safer for you. And for me. Sorry kid."

Her phone was ringing now. Sighing heavily, she gave in and answered, walking back to her room to escape Clint's curious eyes and listening ears. "What?" she asked harshly.

"Imogen, who is your mark?" Will's voice was desperate and insistent, like he was on the edge of panicking. It irked her – she could take care of herself, and he knew it.

"I don't know," she said, dropping her voice so that there would be no chance of being overheard. "Just some guy. Said his name's Clint."

A string of curses filtered through from the other end, surprising her. It didn't sound like her brother at all. "Immy, get out of there," he said gravely. "Get out and wait for me." She could feel anger swelling in her gut as he spoke, getting more and more vicious.

"What?!" she hissed down the line. "Why? I can't believe you. I can do this without you, Will."

"No you can't," he insisted. Her free hand clenched into a fist at her side. "This is a suicide mission, Imogen. That guy is _Hawkeye._ You go after him, you might as well just shoot yourself now." She stayed silent, barely believing him. She'd heard of Hawkeye, of course. Who hadn't? These days, all anyone talked about was the Avengers and the whole New York incident. The idea of facing someone like Hawkeye was daunting, but the guy in her kitchen? Surely Will was mistaken. There was nothing intimidating about a man who chugged coffee and let strange people into his safe house.

"Imogen?"

"Yeah," she said, taking a deep breath in an effort to stay calm. "Yeah, I'm here."

"I'm coming to help you. Just-just get _out_, okay?"

For a moment, she was sorely tempted to listen to him, _just in case_. But then she remembered just what she was here to prove, remembered Ferson's sneering face giving her this mission. If she left this house and waited for Will, who as far as she knew was halfway across the country…she'd lose every advantage she had. "Alright," she lied. She heard his sigh of relief.

"Thankyou. I'll be there soon."

"Okay."

"Bye." And the line went dead. Imogen dropped her phone on her bed, following it a minute later and staring at the ceiling light. It was pretty dingy, fogged over and yellowed with age, giving out a warm glow that just barely lit up the room. Honestly, she wasn't entirely convinced that it was giving out more light than the gaps in the heavy curtains.

"Bad call?"

Groaning, she pulled herself up into a sitting position, eyeing Clint. He stood in the doorway, arms crossed and leaning on the wall as if nothing could ever bother him. She shrugged.

"Just my brother," she replied carefully.

"What did he want?"

"To know that I'm safe." She rolled her eyes. "He worries too much."

"Maybe you should meet up with him somewhere."

"Yeah, maybe," she mumbled, her brain still working overtime. "I was thinking; I'll leave tonight, after it gets dark. It'll be easier to leave without being seen." That would buy her a little time, at least.

He offered her a nod, and then disappeared again. He was stiff, she noticed as he left. On guard. Not as trusting as he could be, but his guard had slipped enough to let her in.

Now she just had to kill him.

* * *

There was a gun on the coffee table.

It had been there all day, sitting in front of her, mocking her. Imogen wasn't really sure _why _there was a gun on the coffee table, but she assumed it had something to do with Clint. Superhero not-so-secret identity aside, he was far from the most organised person she'd ever met – she'd call him scatterbrained if she didn't know better. If she hadn't seen footage of him in action in New York, when he'd been fighting aliens (if that was even him – she still wasn't completely convinced that Will was right about him).

It occurred to her that that should have been enough of a reason to convince her to drop this stupid plan, but all it did was tighten the nasty knot that had squeezed and pushed its way into her stomach uninvited. Besides, running away now would be stupid. She was in the perfect position to take out her target, who also happened to trust her (even if that trust didn't extend much further than the distance he could throw her) and wasn't expecting any of what was coming his way (well, he was, but not from her). Any other agent would take the chance, and they'd be praised for it when they returned.

All she really wanted was a bit of that praise. Just enough to prove she wasn't a complete screw-up.

The knot tightened.

Steeling herself and pushing away what she guessed was just nerves (it was her first mission, after all, her first kill), Imogen set down the phone and picked up the weapon instead. It was already loaded, just waiting for someone to aim and fire, and fit comfortably into her hand. She'd done this a hundred times in the firing range, training for this one moment, but she couldn't stop her hands from shaking as she flicked the safety and rose from the couch, creeping out and down the hall. Clint's voice sounded from the kitchen, muttering into his phone; he'd been covertly trying to get a call through all day, she knew. She paused again at the very edge of the shadows, peering into the kitchen, then taking aim at his exposed back. It was an easy shot; Clint was out in the open, at close range, and completely distracted…yet as she pulled the trigger, she already knew that she'd missed. True enough, the bullet flew straight past him and buried itself in the wall instead, offset by shaking hands that she hadn't been able to steady. Clint dropped immediately, phone conversation forgotten in the face of a more immediate danger, and she cursed herself silently. Without that shot, this mission was about to become a whole lot harder.

"Imogen?" his voice called out from behind the kitchen bench.

"Clint." Her hands were shaking again, her voice barely kept even. Not good. What was this feeling of unease that was throwing her off? Missions like this were the whole reason she was in training – if she couldn't handle this one, how could she handle any in the future?

"What are you doing?" He was confused, that much she could tell. Confused, and perhaps slightly hurt.

"Following orders." Her voice became cold and icy as she spoke, in an attempt to keep herself together.

"Whose orders?" The room fell quiet for a few seconds. "HYDRA's?"

"You don't understand Clint." And there it was, that slight wobble in her voice, a testament to her fraying nerves.

"No, I don't." She could hear it in his voice now, that note of betrayal and hurt, feeding the knot in her stomach and making it tighter. "You want to explain it to me?" His head showed above the bench, and she fired before she could stop herself, bullet biting into the counter-top as he ducked back down again.

"It's complicated." There was a beat, and then, to her amazement, he stepped out into the open – was he stupid? – facing the gun without any protection to speak of. She didn't fire though, not immediately, eyeing him just as he did her.

"You don't have to do this Imogen," he told her, eyes on the gun.

"Yes, I do," she replied, more for her own benefit than his. "I'm sorry Clint, but I have to." He moved then, faster than she could, suddenly up in her face and twisting the gun out of her hand before she could aim or fire. He threw it to the side; it skittered away across the kitchen floor, coming to rest well out of reach. Forgetting the gun, she jumped into action, throwing a fist in towards his stomach. He moved out of the way, the hit just glancing off his ribcage, and she turned with him, employing all of her training just to keep up. Clint fought her off easily, was hardly trying, making her more and more frustrated until her defense became sloppy and her attacks vicious and random.

His chance came easily after that, and in one flowing move, he tripped and pinned her to the ground. "Stop," he told her firmly, voice filled with more authority than most of her trainers. She'd never listened in the academy though, and she wouldn't listen now, pulling one arm free and snatching up the gun again, pressing it to his forehead.

"Are you really going to pull that trigger?" he asked calmly, looking her right in the eye and refusing to let her turn away.

"That's the idea," she replied through clenched teeth.

"I don't think you will."

"Yeah? Why not?"

He cracked just the slightest of smiles, not at all phased by the gun at his head. "You don't really seem like the type to follow orders for no good reason." She froze, his words repeating themselves in her head. He was right; she didn't follow orders. Not unless it was in her best interests.

This was in her best interests. She'd kill him, and Ferson would be forced to give her missions, to treat her like any other agent under his command. Maybe even to let her join Will and his team. "I have a good enough reason," she said finally.

"A reason to kill a man in cold blood?" He looked her right in the eye, unblinking. "Well whatever it is, I hope it's good enough to let you sleep at night."

She froze again, hand shaking as she struggled to keep the gun steady. Seeing his chance, Clint grabbed the gun again, shoving it away from his face just before her finger squeezed the trigger one last time, the bullet burying itself in the wall behind him. Barely blinking, he ripped the weapon out of her hand and threw it out of reach again, blocking her swing at his head with his other hand. "Sorry about this," he muttered, confusing her for a moment before he delivered one final, solid knock to her own head, making her dazed and dizzy, drifting away into unconsciousness.


	3. For And Against

**3: For And Against**

When Imogen woke again, she was slumped in a kitchen chair, hands tied behind her back. Her head pounded with a splitting headache that didn't seem like it was moving any time soon, her muscles stiff and sore. Groaning, she lifted her head and blinked several times to clear the spots from her vision, trying to remember just why she was there.

Her eyes fell on Clint, sitting across the room watching her, and the gun, now lain neatly on the bench beside him. "What's going on?" she asked, shifting in her seat and testing the tape that held her wrists captive. It didn't budge. With a jolt, she remembered the fight – her hands shaking, the bullets missing, Clint knocking the gun away. Something heavy hitting her in the head.

"Well, for one thing, you're not trying to kill me," Clint answered lazily. "Which I'd say is a major improvement on our last conversation."

"_Major improvement?_" she returned incredulously, glaring daggers at him. She'd always been a hothead, especially with a headache. "I'm tied to a chair!"

"Exactly." He sounded _bored, _unaffected by her outburst. "Much better for both of us." There was an icy edge in his voice, one that she hadn't heard from him at all in the last two days. He'd been watchful, sure; distrusting, yes, but never cold. It cut like a knife. He'd been so easy to talk to, easy to get along with, and now he was angry and aloof. She took a deep breath. It was her own fault anyway.

Down the hall, her ringtone blared loudly. She jumped at the sudden noise, eyes snapping from Clint to the hall behind him. "What's that?" he demanded, angry eyes turning to her.

"That's my brother," she shot back easily. "Calling to see why I haven't checked in yet." Conveniently, she forgot the part about supposedly being several miles away from this house and the chair she was tied to. Giving her a look, Clint disappeared down the hall, returning a moment later with the ringing phone and a laptop, settling himself at the bench for a time. The phone went unanswered, eventually falling silent. Clint moved on from watching her to a casual disregard, ignoring the phone when it rang for the second and third times, keeping his eyes steadily on the screen in front of him.

About an hour in, she shifted in her chair, trying to find a more comfortable position. He glanced at her, made sure she was still stuck fast and not going anywhere, then went back to his business.

The hours stretched on.

They put Imogen on edge – she was bored and restless, muscles crying for relief. She'd pulled against the tape almost constantly during the hours she'd sat there, but Clint was good at what he did. It wasn't budging. The phone kept ringing as well, at least fifteen times over the course of the day, until she found herself gritting her teeth every time the ringtone began. If she ever got out of this, she decided at about the ninth call, she was changing her ringtone. It was driving her crazy.

With the sun going down outside the window and the silence growing more malevolent by the second, she was fed up. Shifting uncomfortably and huffing a frustrated sigh for the thousandth time that day, she searched for a way to push him into action, to make him do _something _other than sit there and ignore her. She wouldn't even mind if he knocked her out again; anything for a bit of relief. "Are you going to kill me soon?" she asked finally, voice dripping with a venom she just couldn't contain. "This is really boring."

"Actually, I thought I might just leave you there for a while," he replied lightly, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards. She scowled.

"_Why_?" she asked, not so much interested in his reasons as wanting to keep him talking to distract herself from the fact that she'd been _tied_ to a _chair_ for almost an _entire day. _"What does that even achieve?"

For the first time in hours, Clint actually turned and looked at her. "Thought it might teach you a lesson actually," he said rubbing the back of his neck and stretching. "About patience or something."

"It's not working," she informed him in the driest voice she could muster.

He raised an eyebrow. "I noticed."

"Any other wisdom you wanna hand over?"

"Don't trust HYDRA." He was suddenly completely serious. "I don't know how they got you to join, or why you took their offer, but they're nothing but bad news."

"HYDRA aren't the ones taping me to chairs," she reminded him. And suddenly he was laughing again.

"No, they're the ones sending you out after the best sniper in the world."

She snorted. "If you're so good, why don't you just shoot me already?"

Imogen was pushing her luck, and she knew it. He didn't seemed flustered at all though, just thoughtful, going over something in his mind that looked like it might have been eating at him for years. "Redemption," he said finally.

She frowned heavily. "Redemption?"

He nodded firmly. "Redemption."

"What about it?" Frustration crept into her voice.

"Do you really follow HYDRA's ideals?" he asked with a frown. "You think it's okay to kill people who haven't even committed the crime they're being persecuted for?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

He laughed. "So you're just a blind follower? Didn't take you for someone who wouldn't ask questions."

She scoffed. "You don't even know me," she spat back, squirming for a second. Her binds held tight.

"I know enough." His relaxed confidence annoyed her, a scowl crossing her face as she settled back into her seat and became aware once again of her aching muscles. He leaned forward, looking her right in the eye. It was almost as uncomfortable as the chair. "I know that you're not a killer. You didn't shoot me, even though you had plenty of opportunities. I know that you're angry, because you know that you were sent here to die, you just haven't accepted it yet."

She rolled her eyes away, staring at the darkening kitchen, at the ceiling, at her hands and the tape holding them; anything to escape his eyes. "It's a bit late for regret," she said, her voice louder and angrier than she expected.

He sighed. "I don't want to kill you," he admitted, leaning back in his seat. "Whatever your reasons for joining HYDRA, I don't think that you've done anything to deserve that. So I'll give you a choice." A half-smile came over his face, morbid amusement dancing in his eyes. "Choose a side."

Imogen's eyes snapped back to him instantly. "What?"

"SHIELD or HYDRA. Pick one."

Her mind raced. She'd never been good at choices – she tended to just do whatever came to mind first, and suffered the consequences later. Usually, her first move was to attack blindly. It didn't work out for her much, but she kept on doing it.

Not an option now. Move on.

Her next thought was to side with HYDRA, like she'd been taught to as long as she could remember. Even before she had joined SHIELD, she had been HYDRA. As a child, she'd known more about the makeup of SHIELD than any true SHIELD agent ever would, because she'd known about HYDRA. But as she opened her mouth to spit HYDRA's name in his face, she stopped herself. There was something in the back of her mind, a niggling seed of doubt that stopped her from making her choice. She'd been sent here to die. Just like, as far as Clint was concerned, other people would be sent to die for nothing.

Was she really sure she wanted to serve HYDRA?

But SHIELD weren't any better.

Did she want to be on any side at all?

She was in too deep to get out, she knew. As soon as the thought came to her mind she discarded it – if she left HYDRA, she'd be hunted for the (assuredly short) rest of her life. Any smart agent would claim SHIELD, and betray him later (if there was a later – who knew where he intended to take this), but she sensed this was a challenge to her loyalties, her beliefs, and she never could bring herself to back down from a challenge.

There was a crash somewhere in the house, providing her with blessed relief from her impending choice. Clint shot up, turning in the direction of the front door. Without a sound, he ghosted to the front of the kitchen, pressing himself up against the wall there and peering around the corner into the hall. Imogen could see straight down it from where she was sitting, just enough to spot the dark shapes of two men creeping down the hall towards the kitchen. A flicker of movement in the corner of her eye told her there were more outside, moving past the window.

In the half-light, she could see Clint mouthing what she expected were swear words. He glanced at the gun sitting on the bench, then at the door beside him. He'd have to expose himself to get to it. A small shake of the head, a glance at her, and then he took off down the second hallway and into the bathroom, the only room in the house without windows.

For a moment, she wondered what he was hoping to achieve by barricading himself into a bathroom, but then the two men (one of which actually turned out to be a woman) from the hallway burst into the room, swinging guns around and taking in the scene. Finally, the man lowered his gun and fixed his eyes on her, and she recognized the face of Will, looking relieved as he put away the gun and started pulling at the duct tape expertly holding her to the chair.

"I thought I told you to get out of here," he muttered as he worked.

With a bit of difficulty, she shrugged. "He didn't look dangerous," she said.

"He could have _killed _you," Will said, gritting his teeth. "In fact, from the look of it he was about to."

_No he wasn't._ A voice whispered the treacherous thought in the back of her mind.

_Yes, he was,_ she told it firmly, pushing it aside. The last of the tape fell away and she moved and stretched for the first time all day, relishing the sweet feeling of relief and fresh blood pumping into her muscles.

"Where is he?" Will asked. She gestured to the bathroom door, and the woman who had followed him in was there in a flash, setting to the task of opening it. Imogen turned back to Will and his frown.

"Look, I'm fine," she insisted. "I had to try. At least now I have a _chance_. You know Ferson wouldn't have given me a chance if I'd just run away. He has just as much power to kill me as this guy."

Yelling and the sound of gunshots from outside pulled their attention. Will raced outside, pulling his gun out again and joining the fray. Imogen was slower. There was a small team of HYDRA agents clustered around the house, ten or so as far as she could tell. All of them had guns pointed at the roof. She stumbled across the lawn to join them, looked up – and saw Clint, glancing down at the group in general before setting his eyes on a tree growing particularly close to the edge of the roof and jumping into its branches. The sound of guns firing filled the air, making her ears ring, but it didn't deter him. Before anyone knew it, he'd made it to the branches of a tree in the yard next door, and then to the ground and out of sight behind a high fence.

The night fell silent and suddenly uneventful. Will turned to the rest of his team, barking out a few orders, then grabbed Imogen's arm and steered her back into the kitchen, sitting her down at the bench. "What are you doing?" she asked as he forced her into the chair.

He gave her a stern look, pointing at her chair. "Stay there." And then he disappeared into the house, making a lot more noise than he originally had. She could hear him in her room next door, and then the bathroom Clint _hadn't _used as an escape route, and then the second bedroom. The most noise came then, as he went through something.

He returned with a bow and a quiver of arrows, among other things, dropping them on the bench in front of her. "See," he said, faintly triumphant. "Hawkeye. An Avenger. You should have gotten out while you still could."

"Like you could have done any better," she scoffed. It was the best she had when faced with the unusual weapon. Reaching out, she ran her fingers over the arms of the bow, remembering what Clint had been saying to her before. _Pick a side,_ he'd said. _I don't want to kill you._

_Redemption._

It hit her like a train, her hand snapping back to her lap. Had that been her choice? The way she'd chosen all those years ago, before it was even real, or a second chance with SHIELD? She felt stupid for not realising it before, for letting anger swirl through her system and cloud her mind. Even more, she felt stupid for the things she had been thinking at the time, the things she had been considering. Had she really begun doubting HYDRA? She remembered considering getting out, knowing how futile it would be. She knew that without doubt. Why had she even considered it?

"Imogen?" Will asked with a frown. She shook herself and stood, grabbing the bow and quiver full of arrows.

"Let's go," she said determinedly, pushing towards the front door without waiting for his answer. This was her choice, the path that Will had kept her on whenever she had strayed because he wholeheartedly believed that it was the right one. The one that her parents had followed, the one they had died for.

Any path her whole family followed had to be the right one. Right?


	4. The Doubt

**A/N: Thanks to the 13 people following this story, and my three reviewers - every notification in my email makes my day a little brighter. Also a shout-out to PatronSaintofGermany for keeping me straight and listening to me lose my mind over the end of this chapter; it would still be sitting quietly in a dark corner if you hadn't saved it xD Enjoy!**

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**4: Doubt**

The room was grey.

So far as she'd seen, the whole base was grey, from floor to ceiling. It hadn't been a particularly important base, so no one had bothered giving it any kind of colour. Even the clothes they'd given her were grey. The only colour she'd seen in the whole base was the HYDRA logo someone had painted over SHIELD's eagle near mission control. It had still been drying as she walked past, paint looking like blood in the harsh light of the hallway. Drops of paint had rolled down the wall from the skull and tentacles to pool on the floor below; like the eagle was bleeding, she'd thought in passing, an involuntary shiver running down her spine.

This place, the HYDRA base where Will lived, was little more than an oversized bunker, built for functionality over comfort. Most everyone who walked down its halls was suited up and carrying an array of weapons, on their way to and from missions. There were no offices here, no places to relax after a hard training session or a long stint in the field. There was debrief and mission control and training and really not much else.

Imogen had been given a quick tour. Command, gun range, weapons storage, mess hall, living quarters. They'd directed her to a room and told her on no uncertain terms to stay put. Impressively, she'd listened, and as a result had wasted away hours upon hours just lying on the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. In the first few hours, she'd drifted in and out of sleep, but sleep was long gone now and instead she lay wide awake, staring at the ceiling and rolling the same three words over and over in her head.

_SHIELD or HYDRA?_

It bugged her that the question was still there, looming, unanswered. That Will had interrupted before she'd had time to choose. That she hadn't had the guts to lift up her chin and proudly tell him that HYDRA was her choice, her world, her backbone. Most of all, it bugged her that it bugged her. Anyone else would just let it go, move on, leave him for the wolves of HYDRA to feast on (this whole base was focused on the death of Clint Barton, so far as she knew. He wouldn't be alive long). But here she was, comatose, as he wound his way into her head and set up camp, making her question her every loyalty.

She needed to get _out._

As soon as the temptation found her, Imogen couldn't lie still any longer. It was a miracle she had lasted this long at all; patience was a virtue flung far out of reach of her mind. With a deep sigh, she sat up, and then stood, stretching out muscles that were still aching from their abuse the day before. It was a satisfying feeling. She slipped through the door like a wraith, though there was no one outside to sneak past, making it all too easy to wind her way through to a main thoroughfare and blend into the small crowd walking back and forth.

Where to go? To Will? She didn't know or recognise anyone else on this base, nor did she want to. Anyone who knew her would screw up their nose and move quickly in the other direction. People found her repulsive like that; no one had ever really taken a shine to her (her parents were a possible exception, but she had no memories to compare). She'd been born to turn people away.

She shook her head, just a little. To Will, then.

Her brother was in the mess hall, surrounded by the small team he'd led against Clint. As soon as he saw her, he excused her and crossed the room to meet her in the middle, pulling her over to the wall, out of the main thoroughfare. "What are you doing, Imogen?" he asked with a frown.

She shrugged. "I'm bored, Will. I can't sit in that room all day; you know that."

"You're just going to have to," he said with a sigh.

"Why?"

"We've all got things to do, Imogen. Besides, I haven't even talked to the commander about you being here; technically, you're still under Ferson's command."

"Go and talk to him then. I can _help _you."

He shook his head. "You can help me by staying out of the way."

Frustrated, she gritted her teeth and balled her hands up into fists, nails pressing painfully into her palms. "Fine," she replied finally, not bothering to hide her displeasure. She turned to leave but didn't quite escape before Will caught her shoulder, turning her back to him. "What?"

He pressed a keycard into her hand. "My room's just down the hall from yours. Go and find something to do; read a book, play a game, I don't care as long as you stay put."

Taking the card, she threw him another filthy look and escaped the mess hall as fast as she could. Fuming quietly, she let her feet carry her back to the living quarters of the base without really thinking about it, finding her way to Will's room. It was identical to hers – same bed, same desk, same endless grey. Will had more possessions than she did though; a neat stack of books on the desk, a bar of chocolate, clothes scattered here and there.

It was the grey laptop on his bed that caught her attention though.

Shoving the keycard in her pocket, she flopped down onto the bed and opened the computer. The screen blinked on, asking her for a password, and without pause she tapped in the ID number from his keycard, unlocking the device. It was the password he used for everything, she knew, which also happened to be the reason she'd memorised the sequence of letters and numbers unique to her brother. You never knew when access to a higher clearance level could come in handy (even if that access was limited – SHIELD wasn't much of a fan of passwords these days).

The laptop opened to one of the standard programs installed by SHIELD, a system that monitored news feeds and media from all over the world for whatever it was you wanted information on. Currently, Will had it searching for information on SHIELD and HYDRA, and the results were pouring in. The whole thing with the helicarriers in DC had gone viral the minute someone noticed it was happening, and the file dump had followed soon after. The whole world was talking about it, and with good reason. She threw a precursory glance over the latest feeds, intending to shut the program down, but one caught her eye and she stopped. She picked it from the crowd, enlarging it. Grainy, unprofessional footage of a highway shooting started playing – the imposing form of Captain America was easy to pick out, the bright shield on his arm setting him apart from his companions. That wasn't what had caught her attention though – no, she was interested in the captain's opponent, the one whose left arm was fully exposed and glinted a bright metallic colour in the sun, only better highlighting the deep red star residing on his shoulder. There wasn't much footage of him, compared to what was shown of the captain and his allies. Someone didn't want this guy seen.

HYDRA? Probably. Curiousity piqued, she minimised the program and opened another one, finding her way into several fragmented copies of the file dump within minutes. HYDRA was doing its best to pull all the information back under cover, but they had acted too slowly; there was at least one copy of everything to be found somewhere, and if there was one thing she excelled at, it was finding what she wanted. It was a skill she'd honed through years of lies, bullying, and burning curiousity over withheld information, until it was something to be proud of, even if no one would let her use it for anything useful.

Even with her considerable skill and stockpile of leaked files, there was precious little information on Captain America's new nemesis. What she could find was hidden under layers and layers of useless SHIELD information and protocol, piggybacked onto the system in places where no one would think to look for it. A few mission reports, health evaluations, some other documents that made little sense to her, most of them written in languages that were definitely not English, though she had no idea further than that. She wasn't a linguist. There was a name though, a name that was consistent with each report. The Winter Soldier.

She kept digging, but little else appeared.

Eventually, she turned back to what she'd already found. There was a mention of cryogenics, a reference to another report. That file was SHIELD property, easy to find compared to the HYDRA files. She only skimmed it, not in the mood to decipher the scientific jargon that filled the report. The name at the bottom would be the most interesting part of the paper anyway. A name could be traced to an employee record and to further reports.

Any plans on digging for more information on the soldier fell from her mind at the name though, thoughts turning to other things. _Kathleen Haylock_ was typed out at the bottom, marking the report as one her mother had written. Imogen shoved the laptop away from her for a moment, sucking in a deep breath. Really, she should have expected something like this. She knew her mother worked for HYDRA, knew she'd had an interest in cryogenics and done a lot of research on the subject. Somewhere in SHIELD's archives there was a whole box dedicated to her theories. But she'd never actually _carried out_ any of her research, not for SHIELD anyway.

_Now _she was curious.

Sending a copy of the cryo report to her phone for later reference, she closed it and went searching for anything related to her mother. A SHIELD employee file came up, but didn't tell her much, as well as several mission and injury reports and a few more reports on a cryogenics project SHEILD didn't know she'd worked on.

There was a picture in one – a man, frozen. Imogen shivered and clicked away from the report as fast as she could, trying not to think about her mother experimenting on people. It was a lot to swallow.

Right at the very bottom, there was a mission report that wasn't marked by SHIELD and until recently had been heavily encrypted – HYDRA. It didn't even look like a report really; it lacked the formality and utter disinterest of any other paperwork she'd ever encountered.

_Targets: Agent Michael Haylock; Agent Kathleen Haylock._

_Mission successful._

She sucked in a breath, staring at the screen, confused. Her parents shouldn't be listed as HYDRA targets. They'd been killed by enemies of SHIELD looking for retribution, not HYDRA. Or at least, that's what Will had told her.

He wouldn't lie to her. Not about this. He knew how much it meant to her, how everything that happened to her, everything she did, had revolved around their deaths.

She read on. Slowly, she began to doubt her faith in Will.

Written at the bottom of the report: _Agent Cassandra Brady to continue surveillance of Item 548._

The name started a fire in her that was unlike any other. She hated that woman. Cassandra Brady, the woman (and apparently also HYDRA agent) who had adopted both Haylock children when their parents died, had taken everything they had and given them nothing in return. She'd been hard and uncompromising, angry when Imogen got into fights and arguments at school and ignorant of anything either child did the rest of the time. When Will joined SHIELD before he'd even finished school, she didn't even seem to notice. And then, she'd barely lasted three years of waiting for Imogen to leave before disappearing entirely just before her fifteenth birthday.

She'd joined HYDRA for that birthday. It was her only choice.

The thought of that woman being on the same side as her parents – as _her_ – repulsed her. The fact that Brady had been involved in her parent's deaths only made her angrier. And Item 548 confused her. It was something that her parents had been in possession of, that much was apparent, but she had no idea _what_ exactly. Everything the family had owned was claimed and either sold or trashed by that woman. If two children couldn't escape that fate (and she might as well have thrown them out with all the family photos, because Imogen was certain nothing was the same as it could have been), then how could any random item?

So Cassandra Brady had lied to her every day for the ten years she'd acted as 'mother'. She was not the next door neighbour, not her old babysitter from the days when she had a family, but a HYDRA agent, involved in the assassination of the people she had dared to call friends and then sent to watch over their children and whatever Item 548 was.

Within the next twenty minutes, Imogen found numerous missions completed by a younger Agent Brady, and just one by the woman as Imogen had known her. Item 548 came up again. So did Brady's death.

She couldn't say she felt anything but hate.

There was something still bothering her about the file on her parent's death. Trawling through the mess of files, she pulled up Will's. Immediately, a note on an ongoing mission caught her attention, bringing her to mission details.

It was simple.

_Protect Item 548._

The mission dated back _years_; he'd had it before she'd even joined SHIELD. She couldn't, in all those years, ever remember him mentioning it though, not once in the hundreds of times she'd asked him if he had anything from their parents. But this mission, this item being passed down from her parents, to Brady, to Will, this said differently.

He'd been lying, she realised suddenly. For as long as she could remember, someone had been lying to her; first Brady, and then Will. There was no doubt about it. She couldn't tell herself anything different, not unless she wanted to be a liar as well. The seed of doubt in her mind bloomed like a rose in the spring. If he'd lied about this, who knew what else he'd kept from her. Maybe everything was a lie. Maybe he'd never said a true thing in his life.

And why had he lied to her? Because HYDRA had told him to, probably. They liked to lie, she'd discovered as she read, just like SHIELD had.

She was so _sick _of it. All her life, she'd followed lie after lie after lie, built herself around beliefs that were just someone's idea of a joke. She wanted to scream and rage and break something.

She sat. Silent.

Her thoughts drifted back to Barton. Back to the things he'd said. _I don't want to kill you._

_You were sent here to die, you just haven't accepted it yet._

_SHIELD or HYDRA?_

Her fingers found the card in her pocket, a key to the rest of the base. She knew what to do now. Abandoning the laptop and the room, she entered the concrete maze that was the base, striding with a confidence she didn't really have. No one questioned her. They barely even looked at her, all too confident themselves. The hall leading to the archives was completely deserted. No one here was interested in paperwork and artifacts, apparently; not that there would be anything very interesting kept here.

She found it dumped on a shelf right in the very back, amid a myriad of other seized weapons that no one knew how to use. They probably didn't work anyway, probably never had a chance to; created by some half-baked evil scientist in the back of his garage. The bow didn't look right, thrown uncaringly on top of a pile of science experiments gone wrong – it was too sleek, too dark, like it belonged to another world. The quiver was there too, and she snatched up both, bundling them up in a blanket she'd borrowed from Will's room.

Her trip back to her room lacked the confidence she'd feigned earlier – she tried, but her heart was beating in double time and her steps quickened to match. Every time she passed someone it leapt into her throat, then fell back into her chest with a dull thud. Surely they could hear it. No one stopped her though.

The door clicked shut behind her and she breathed sigh of relief, slumping against it, her prize in her arms. After a moment, she forced herself to move, stashing it in a corner of the wardrobe and knocking over a stack of SHIELD-issue clothing to cover it. Just as she finished, there was a knock at the door; she checked once more that the bow was out of sight and then answered it.

It was Will, of course. No one else would have any reason to knock on her door. "I need my key back," he said, holding out his hand.

She dug the card out of her pocket and handed it to him. "Thanks," she muttered, not really paying attention to what she was saying.

He frowned. "Are you okay?" he asked, stopping her from closing the door with one hand.

"Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"

"You just said thanks. Since when do you have manners?"

"Funny," she snapped, shoving the door closed. For a moment, she waited, expecting him to force his way back in and demand to know why she was acting weird, only relaxing when she heard his footsteps walking away.

She slumped onto her bed, staring at her hands. She had to find a way out, and soon.


	5. To Find An Archer

**A/N: Wow, thanks so much for your reviews and favs and follows; I was so surprised at how many there were when the last chapter went up :D In other news, I somehow managed to write an edit a whole chapter in two days which is unheard of for me xD This is almost a bit of a filler chapter, but needs to happen, and the next chapter will be infinitely more interesting and actually have some hawkeye I promise.**

**Enjoy!**

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**5: To Find An Archer**

The thing about small bases was that they tended to run on a cycle that wasn't unlike the regular, nine-to-five business hours, except that no one actually left the building at the end of the day. During the day, the halls were a hive of activity, people going in every direction. When night fell – well, you could almost mistake the place for deserted. Lights were dimmed, agents went to sleep, and guards took up their rotations. There were always a few people in mission control, of course, but they were only there to monitor any action, as very few high-level ops ran from here.

Imogen knew the cycle well. She'd lived on a base just a little bigger than this for a good two years now. No matter how many night ops people went on, they always fell back into the same routine of rising and retiring with the sun. So, once the clock hit midnight and the base was as quiet as it would get, Imogen left her room, closing the door as softly as she could behind her and creeping away down the hall, holding her jacket close as tightly as she could. The bow and quiver were an unfamiliar weight on her back, hidden as best she could under her jacket – hopefully, the darkness would take care of the rest. She'd left her hair loose too, falling down her back in soft waves to help hide the bulk of the weapons.

If someone did notice them, there was a gun at her side, and she had a mean left hook.

The halls were deserted, letting her pass through the base like a ghost, unseen. Every room was dark, except for the empty mess hall and mission control, where a handful of people sat hunched over bright screens and mission files, their attention far away from the woman creeping past outside.

The staircase was the problem. As one of only two ways out of the bunker, there was always someone watching over it. During the day, they'd been placed above ground, in the small building that acted as a disguise for the operations below, but now there was a woman at the bottom of the stairs, leaning against the wall and looking bored. It was immediately clear that Imogen wouldn't be able to sneak past – the whole staircase was lit up like a Christmas tree – and there would be no bluffing her way out either. Her jacket didn't quite cover the bow, and there was a discernable lump under her jacket where the quiver sat. She might have gotten away with it in the dark, where it was hard to make out any proper details, but there was no way she could under the scrutiny of those bright lights.

For a moment, she fingered the gun, considering just shooting the guard and being done with it. The shot would echo though, gaining her unwanted attention from who knows how many other people. Mission control wasn't very far behind her at all. Not to mention how her hands had shaken when she'd tried to shoot Clint. There was no time for mistakes like that in this sort of environment, where she was forced to face the woman at close quarters.

Only one way to do this then.

She stepped out of the shadows. The other woman jerked upright, caught off guard by the sudden company. "What are you doing here?" she snapped, replacing surprise with anger, trying to cover up that she hadn't been paying any attention to her surroundings at all.

"Got some business upstairs," Imogen replied, gesturing at the stairs with one hand, the other stopping her jacket from moving and revealing the bow. Damn it. Why did Barton have to use a weapon that was so hard to carry discreetly? How did he pull off undercover operations with this thing anyway?

The agent's eyes narrowed. "What's that under your coat?" she asked.

Imogen frowned, feigning confusion. "What do you mean?"

"Don't play games with me, kid," the woman threatened, stepping within Imogen's reach. "That right-" Imogen cut her off, lunging forward in a tackle that drove the point of her shoulder into the guard's stomach, driving the air from her lungs. Both women went crashing to the ground, the guard struggling to push Imogen off her. One of her elbows caught the blonde in the face; growling at the sudden burst of pain in her jaw, Imogen pinned down her arms and wrapped her fingers around her throat, bearing down with all her weight.

The woman bucked and struggled, trying to throw off the smaller girl but to no effect; slowly, the lack of oxygen began to take effect, her movements becoming feebler until finally she fell still. "Not a kid," Imogen muttered under her breath, getting up and dusting herself off, touching the spot on her jaw where the woman had hit her. She'd have a bruise there, probably. Oh well.

Upstairs and through a door, and then she was in another hallway, this one wood-paneled and a great improvement on the plain concrete of the basement level. The voices of two men drifted from somewhere up ahead; relaxed, mindless chatter to keep them awake more than anything else. They'd heard none of her short battle downstairs apparently, but they were also between her and the door.

She shook her head slightly. Had she really been expecting to just walk out the front door? Silent, she crept down the hall, looking into each of the rooms that lined it until she found one with a window. The door clicked softly behind her and she darted across the room, unlocking the window and lifting up just enough for her to squeeze through. Somewhere, an alarm went off, loud enough to wake the dead and she jumped, then sped up. She could hear the voices outside getting louder. Quickly, she shed her jacket and then the bow and quiver, shoving them all through the window in one long bundle. There were footsteps in the hall, the sound of doors opening and closing nearby. Discarding any care, she went out the window headfirst, her heart thundering in her ears.

With a grunt, she pulled her legs through and landed in a crumpled heap in a garden bed. Someone entered the room she'd just left, flicking the light on and sending a wash of gold reaching for her, trying to expose her. Her breath catching in her throat, she scrambled to pull herself under a large bush to her right, shoving the weapons along in front of her, the low-lying branches of the bush parting to let her through and then falling again to cover her tracks.

It became immediately apparent that she'd climbed under a rosebush or something to that effect, thorns grabbing at her clothes as she pushed and wriggled her way under it. Gritting her teeth and mentally cursing her bad luck, she pulled herself free and continued, curling up between the bush and the wall and making herself as small as possible.

Not a moment later, a bald head protruded from the open window, carefully scanning the surrounding land. Imogen felt his eyes pass over her, imagined that they paused to scrutinize the suspicious patch of dark grey on the other side of the bush, and that his ears turned towards the sound of her shallow breaths. If he noticed, he didn't seem particularly alarmed as he disappeared, saying something to his partner as he closed the window. She counted to a rushed twenty to give them time to leave the room and then moved, pulling herself free of the bush with a string of hissed swear words that only the dark night could hear. They'd be back before long, searching for whoever had opened the window; even if they thought someone had broken _in _rather than _out,_ she needed to get moving. Stepping clear of the garden (why did SHIELD have a garden anyway?), she reached down and retrieved the bow and quiver, pulling on her coat and then throwing the weapons over her shoulder. No need to hide them now; if she was caught, they wouldn't get her in any more trouble than she was already in.

Breaking into a run, she headed directly away from the building, towards the lights of a town that lay just a few kilometers away. She glanced behind her, saw the flashing light of torches being swept back and forth, and quickened her pace.

Without warning, a rock materialised in front of her foot, grabbing at her boot and bringing her crashing down into a ditch. She let out a strangled cry as she fell heavily on her right shoulder and rolled, tucking herself into a ball again. Frozen, she lay waiting for shouts and flashing lights to expose her, but they didn't come.

Calm down. She had to calm down. Forcing a few deep breaths to shudder through her frame, she slowly untangled herself and turned, crawling to the edge of the ditch. The torches were on this side of the building now, but hadn't strayed far out. Maybe they had thought someone wanted to get in rather than out. Whatever the reason, she thanked her lucky stars they hadn't seen her running.

Sliding ungracefully back into the ditch, she sat herself down in the dirt and waited a minute for her heart to slow to a more reasonable pace. She could already feel an ache setting into her shoulder and ankle, which she guessed she'd twisted when she fell. Her arms and back stung too, where the thorns from the bush had pushed through her shirt to scratch at the skin below. With one hand, she reached back and ran a hand over the ends of the arrows – they felt as tight-packed as ever. Somehow she hadn't lost any throughout the whole ordeal. That was handy.

With a groan, she picked herself up out of the dirt, testing her weight on her sore foot. The ache got worse for a moment, but it bore her weight without too much complaint. Not twisted too badly then. With some difficulty she climbed out of the ditch and headed off towards the town again.

Half an hour later and she reached the first few streets – just dusty dirt roads with a handful of houses. Huffing a sigh, she glanced at the dark windows of the houses and then went for the first car she saw, getting it up and running in seconds. She was gone before its owners could even stir in their sleep.

* * *

By some bad luck, Will had found himself in mission control at two in the morning instead of sleeping peacefully in his bed, like he should have been. Curse whoever had decided to cause such a commotion in the middle of the night, he thought as he yawned and rubbed at his eyes in a desperate attempt to keep himself awake. If they were going to wake up everyone on base, they could at least had the decency to wait until morning.

"Run me through what happened again?" he asked Murphy, more for something to focus on than because he'd forgotten any details. His eyes followed the agents bustling back and forth down the hall outside. Nothing like an emergency to get everybody moving.

Murphy sat back from his computer, swinging his chair to face Will. He liked Murphy – they were very similar in a lot of ways. They both stood at an average height with brown hair almost falling in their eyes, both were faithful members of HYDRA, both had younger sisters (Murphy hadn't seen his in ten years while Will couldn't shake Imogen, but that was beside the point). What differences they had complemented each other too; Will was more active, more suited to being a field agent, while Murphy liked to hang back and work on the technical side of things, gathering intel and guiding Will through the comm link. Murphy wasn't particularly liked by other agents, but Will was – no one would touch Murphy so long as they were friends.

"Someone broke in upstairs a couple of hours ago," he began, adjusting the glasses perched precariously on his nose. "Came in through a window, dodged the upstairs guards, tried to suffocate Agent Porter. She's still unconscious." The computer beeped, drawing his attention. "Looks like there's some stuff missing from Archives, which would explain why they bothered breaking in."

Will leant forward to better see the screen. "What was taken?" he asked. Murphy frowned, at his screen, pulling up an archive file.

"Bow," he answered, brow furrowed in confusion. "Arrows. What is this, the Hunger Games?"

Will leant back again, giving Murphy's chair a shove with one foot, a lazy grin coming over his face as the other man grabbed the desk to stop himself rolling away. "They're the weapons we took from Barton the other day, remember?"

"Oh yeah." Murphy still looked confused. "Geez Haylock. You think he came back for them?"

Will shrugged. "I wouldn't put it past him. Might sound like a crazy idea to you, but the guy's pretty unorthodox."

A young agent hurried through the door, catching Will's attention. Seeing that the rest of the room was busy, the boy approached them, wringing his hands nervously. "Agent Grace sent me," he quivered. "They did a headcount, and there's someone missing."

"Who?" Murphy asked. Will closed his eyes. He already knew the answer; no matter what you did with her, you just couldn't keep her out of trouble.

"Imogen Haylock," the kid replied, confirming his fears.

Murphy glanced at Will. "You okay there?"

He opened his eyes, looked at his friend a moment, and then nodded. "I'm going to go find the team, see if we can get any leads on Barton. He can't have gotten far."

"I'm on comms if you need me," Murphy said with a nod, which Will returned before standing and leaving the room, already outlining search plans in his head.

* * *

Dawn was just painting the horizon when Imogen finally made it back to the last place she'd seen Clint – the house he'd been hiding in when she first came to him. Parking two streets away, she donned his weapons again and walked the rest of the way, skirting around streetlights and darting from shadow to shadow. She paused across the street, watching the house for any sign of HYDRA but it was deserted – probably, they'd already gotten anything they needed from the place and gone off chasing any leads they had on Barton. That's what she would be doing, if she _had _any leads.

As it was, this house was the only clue she had.

She had a feeling the he hadn't quite moved on yet anyway. She didn't know _why_ she thought this, but she did trust her instincts, and so on a whim she made her way to the tree he'd used to escape and settled in its branches to wait (if she was honest, she was a just a bit disappointed not to find the Hawk there waiting for her, but then she remembered that he didn't expect to see her ever again). Her fingers found the piece of paper in her pocket as she waited, turning it over and over to settle her mind.

The closer daylight came, the more she began to doubt herself, until she was on the verge of packing up and leaving. If she wasn't right about this, if he didn't show, then she'd have to start searching from scratch, with no information to go on. She was good at finding people, but she was not infallible, and Clint Barton was good enough to avoid any of the normal ways HYDRA would use to track people – honestly, she had no idea where she'd go from here.

She was just about to leave when he finally showed, moving like a wraith in the twilight.

Imogen snapped to attention as he slipped across the yard and disappeared into the house, pulling out her note. It was written on the back of a receipt she'd found in the car, and contained nothing more than an address and a time, which was drawing closer with every minute that ticked by. If she could just get it to him, then she could meet him on _her_ terms, have the conversation she needed in a place where he couldn't trick or lay a trap for her. She didn't want to face him on anything but her advantage.

Pulling the bow over her head, she settled the grip in one hand and selected an arrow with the other, drawing I out and placing it on the string. Though she was in no way an archer, she knew some of the most basic technique from books and movies and hours spent mindlessly trawling the internet. Nock the arrow, turn side on (well, as much as you could while sitting in a tree), draw back the string. Keep your grip relaxed. Aim. Fire.

She angled the arrow towards the back steps and let the bowstring slip from her fingers, the arrow flying. It struck the pavers below the back steps with a shrill 'clink' and bounced into the lawn, wildly off target but still loud enough to catch his attention. The real archer appeared a moment later, moving carefully; she watched as he picked the arrow up and pulled off her note, studying it, committing it to memory. After a moment of careful reading, his eyes snapped up, searching for the person with his arrows.

Their eyes met. She stared at him like a deer caught in headlights, eyes wide, and for a moment entertained the idea of coming down to meet him. But no, that wouldn't be a good idea. More likely than not, he'd just beat her up and tie her to a chair again, take his weapons and leave her there for HYDRA. Throwing the bow back over her head to rest with the quiver, she crept backwards through the branches, out of sight, and then scurried down the tree, jumping from a low branch into the neighbour's yard. Staying low, she crept back around to the front of the house, hunkering down in the neighbour's flower bed for a while. If Barton came looking for her, he didn't find her – didn't even come out to the street. He'd left, she guessed, gotten out of there before HYDRA came back. He'd know where to find her in just a few hours anyway.

Pulling herself from the garden, she stepped out onto the sidewalk and headed for the car she'd stolen, before anyone started wondering what a strange girl was doing on the street with a bow and a couple dozen arrows on her back.


	6. Stormwater

**A/N: I'm so very sorry this chapter took so long - I was having trouble with it and I rewrote one part like five times and then I was working and I fell off a racehorse and just...it's been a hectic week or so. Thank you all for your lovely reviews - they're what keep me going! I went and read them all multiple times while trying to finish this to keep myself going :D Hopefully the next one will be done and out faster than this one xD**

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**6: Stormwater**

The rain started soon after she left the house, just a light patter of drops on the windscreen at first, but before long it had built into a proper deluge. The day was grey and gloomy, thunder rumbling in the distance; she sat in her car, parked on a quiet corner, and watched the rain slide down the windows for hours, waiting for the time she would meet Barton again. Imogen could feel weariness setting in, slowing her mind and exaggerating her aches and pains. It had been at least 24 hours since she had last slept. For a time, she tried to doze off right there in the car, but her mind refused to be quiet. What would she say to him, it asked. What would he say back? Could she still have her choice?

Would he even come?

No, of course he would come. There was no doubt of that. He would want the bow back, and now he knew that it was in her possession. After all, what was Hawkeye without his weapons?

He would come.

1:47.

It was close enough to the time she'd specified. Flipping up the hood of her jacket, she left the warmth and safety of the car for the rain outside, reaching for the bow and arrows at the last second. They would attract attention, but if he was watching her, she wanted her bargaining chips where she could see them, not sitting there in a car where he could take them at his leisure.

The small coffee shop she'd given him the address to was only a block or two from the car, though it might as well have been five miles for the soaking she got. She caught sight of herself in the window as she sat down at a table outside, wet hair sticking to her forehead and dripping down her back, dirt still smeared on her face, a lovely bruise blooming on her jaw. Her clothes were cleaner now, though still torn and dirty-looking, from climbing under thorny bushes and rolling around in ditches. Displeased, she turned away and resolved not to look again.

Her eyes turned to the people around her instead. She'd placed herself in plain view, sitting outside the shop, but with the unusual weapons half-hidden behind her leg most people treated her like any other customer, giving her no more than a precursory glance. None of them looked like HYDRA, not that she was really expecting them to crash the party just yet. Surely even they couldn't track her that fast.

Clint saw her, without doubt, but she would have missed him completely if it weren't for the dog (it was almost embarrassing, being out-played by a dog). She turned to look down the street just in time to see him crouch down and scratch behind the ears of some big black dog. Not for the first time, she found herself wondering how this man was one of SHIELD's top agents, as she pulled in a deep breath and stood, throwing his weapons over her shoulder.

He saw her coming out of the corner of his eye, instantly recognising his bow slung across her back and rose, casting on last, regretful look after the dog. "Imogen," he greeted her, rubbing the back of his neck. His eyes drifted to the coffee shop behind her, and the cup clutched in a recent customer's hand as they walked past the pair. "We need coffee," he decided abruptly. "Can't do anything without coffee."

A demand for caffeine wasn't what Imogen was expecting but she hid any surprise and shrugged, motioning for him to lead the way. He did so, looking almost casual – she would have believed it, had she not seen the tension building in his muscles, changing the way he held himself, the way he walked and moved about, ready for a fight. Whatever else he was, Clint Barton was not stupid.

She waited patiently just out of arm's reach as he ordered and paid for his coffee, then followed him to a table by the window. His drink came a moment later, and he gulped down half of it (or thereabouts) in the blink of an eye.

"What happened to your face?" he asked as he set the mug down, gesturing to a spot on his jaw.

"I left HYDRA," she replied bluntly.

He paused, raised an eyebrow. "Made your choice then?"

"No."

"So you'll go back."

"Maybe."

"Why'd you leave then?"

"A lot of people have been lying to me," she snapped.

He chuckled, gulping down coffee. "The whole organization is built on lies, kid. You better get used to it."

"Not a kid," she insisted.

"You look like a kid."

"You need to get your eyes checked."

"You need your brain checked. My eyes are _fine_."

Imogen shrugged, watching Clint down the last of his coffee with an appreciative sigh. He waved the waitress over, asking for more. "So are you planning to give me my stuff back, or did you break out of HYDRA with it just to keep it as a souvenir?"

"Don't know yet." Her eyes drifted to the window. "Depends."

"On HYDRA?" She hummed in reply, earning a sigh from Clint. The waitress returned, steam curling from the mug in her shaking hands. In an aside, Imogen wondered why. Was it really so nerve-wracking carrying a cup of coffee? "I don't know much about HYDRA," he continued once she was gone. "But they don't seem like the type to take back deserters."

She took in a deep, controlled breath. He'd hit the nail on the head, of course. HYDRA didn't take kindly to people who left them; deserters or otherwise. She could easily have signed her death warrant the moment she climbed out of that window, and she'd have no way of knowing until they caught up with her, or she turned herself in. That was her choice now, she realised. That was her choice, and both could end with a bullet in her head.

When she didn't answer, Clint laughed,, a short, humourless bark spat out between sips of coffee as he lifted his mug to his lips.

"Why'd you give me a choice anyway?" she asked. Behind her, the door opened, a wave of cold air reaching for the back of her neck and sending shivers down her spine. She saw Clint's eyes dart over the newcomer but kept her own focused on him, acting casual. She saw the man's back as he walked past a moment later – heavily built, wrapped in a thick jacket, bald head, the acrid smell of cigarette smoke following him through the room.

Clint sighed, mug clinking back down onto the table. "Told you. I didn't want to kill you. Don't like killing kids."

"But I'm HYDRA."

A smile broke over his face. "I can fix that. Could have fixed that. Kids are always the easiest to fix."

"I'm not broken," she said indignantly.

"No," he agreed, letting silence fall. "Chipped and cracked maybe. But not broken," he added as an afterthought.

She thought about it, let it sit in her mind. Chipped. Cracked. Imperfect. Perhaps not broken now, but likely to break sometime in the future. "What makes you think that?" she asked.

He shrugged. "I've known a few broken people," he said around his coffee. "Known plenty who were headed that way."

"Yeah, you seem real popular," she remarked dryly. "So popular that the only people who want to hang out with you now are the ones that are trying to kill you."

"You still want to kill me, Imogen?" She shrugged. "Well, at least I don't do HYDRA's dirty work without knowing why," he shot back casually.

"Actually, you've been doing it for years, idiot," she said. "Everything SHIELD is HYDRA, remember? You've been working for them all this time, you just didn't know it."

His jaw locked, grip on his mug tightened. "I think we're done here," he ground out. "You gonna give me my stuff, or do I have to get that for myself too?"

One of her hands dropped to the bow. "I'm not giving it to you."

For a moment, he looked like he'd attack her right then and there. He was thinking about it. But then, his eyes drifted over the rest of the shop, bustling with people, and he thought better of it. He stood, digging money out of his pocket to pay for his coffee. "Watch yourself, kid," he said, dropping a note on the table.

She let him leave.

Waited five minutes.

Someone stood to leave at the same time she did. She threw a quick glance in that direction as she set the quiver on her back; it was the guy from before, the one that smelled of cigarettes and bad life choices. He almost caught her eye – a creeping feeling made its way across her neck.

Shaking it off, she turned and hurried out the door.

The cold wind hit her before she even closed the door, ripping straight through her shirt and jacket to sink its teeth into the skin below, sucking the warmth from her body. Rain splashed into her face, thrown by the wind before she could draw up her hood, and puddles soaked her shoes in minutes as she splashed through them on her path down the street. She was cold to the bone before she reached the end of the block, not dressed for the weather (she'd opted for light and flexible over warm when deciding what to take with her), her steps growing faster at the thought of the car that was waiting for her, with its dry interior and promise of escape from the archer and the cigarette man following her. Clint had disappeared from sight, no doubt hiding in shadows and tracking her movements, waiting for her to let her guard down. The man from the coffee shop though, he wasn't so covert, following her doggedly just ten or so metres back, undeterred by the rain and the wind.

Out of nowhere, something heavy crashed into her shoulder – the one that was already bruised, of course – sending her reeling sideways trying desperately to regain her balance. Arms grabbed at her and feet kicked at her legs in a desperate scramble to bring her to the ground. For a moment, she thought it was the man following her, and that he'd caught up without her noticing, but the smell was missing, as was the body mass. This man was thinner (though still thick-set, like his companion) and much cleaner, with big, meaty hands and steel-capped boots that were currently trying to break her leg or something. Grunting, she twisted free of the grip he'd managed to gain on her arm, lashing out with both fists until he gave her room to move, to get out of his reach and regain her balance.

Almost immediately, he was advancing again, driving her backwards into a small street with a toothless grin. The cigarette man caught up to them then, coming up beside his friend and blocking any chance of exit. She glanced down the street; there were two more waiting at the other end. No escape.

The first man lunged forward, sweeping at her feet. Imogen jumped it, blocked his left fist, ducked under another. Delivered a swift upper-cut as she straightened, with all the power of her body behind it, and his head snapped back painfully. The cigarette man appeared as he stumbled backwards, getting much too close for comfort and filling her lungs with his stink. He buried his knee in her stomach, driving all the air from her body, then gave her a shove and a trip, sending her falling backwards.

Her head cracked painfully against the pavement, sending stars dancing across her vision and a wave of pain rolling through her brain, and the quiver both broke her fall and twisted her back awkwardly as she landed on it. Trying desperately to suck in a breath, her heart beating way too fast as her whole body went into overdrive, she forced herself to roll over onto her hands and knees, trying to get back on her feet. She really hoped Clint was still watching her. She'd take the angry archer over these guys any day. A boot buried itself in her stomach as she choked on her own breath, throwing her sideways; a gun pressed against her leg, reminding her it was there, waiting. She rolled again, pulled it out, aimed in the direction of her attackers, and pulled the trigger.

The cigarette man let out a strangled cry as the shot echoed and went down, clutching at his leg. Crimson began to drop from the hole the bullet had ripped in his pants, staining the grey material an even darker colour. The other one, the one she'd given a solid blow to the jaw rallied, leaping and grabbing at her hand, twisting. She let out a loud cry in protest as a hot, knife-like pain shot through her wrist and the gun fell from her fingers, skittering away out of reach. He kept twisting, making the pain worse. She clenched her teeth, refusing to scream.

"Stop!" A familiar voice saved her, its owner appearing at the end of the street. Her attacker listened, dropping her wrist and retreating, grabbing the gun as he did. Cradling her arm and breathing in short, hard gasps, she stared at this newcomer, blinking spots from her vision.

There were lines in her brother's face, like he wasn't happy, like he didn't understand. "I told you not to hurt her," he said to the man who didn't have a hole in his leg. He sounded…angry?

The oaf just shrugged. "She didn't stop like you said she would. Had to stop her somehow."

Will's focus turned from the idiots to her. "Imogen?" he asked, sounding for all the world like he was talking to a five year old. He'd never talked to her like that before. Or maybe he had. Her mind was so foggy that she couldn't remember. She didn't like it when people talked to her like that; did she let him talk to her like that?

Thinking about it hurt, so she stopped thinking, focusing on the thing that she did remember, the thought that didn't hurt to think. He was a liar. He'd lied to her, all this time. Slowly, she pulled the bow over her head, setting it in the hand that hurt the most (it hurt even more to wrap her fingers around the bow, but she grit her teeth and pushed past it).

"What are you doing?" Will asked. A shadow passed over his face. "Did Barton put you up to this?"

She shook her head, searching for her tongue. "No one put me up to anything," she said slowly. "No one except HYDRA, when they told me to kill."

"You're delirious," her brother decided, a pleading note in his voice.

"I'm fine," she snapped. Her other hand reached back behind her, fingers brushing the ends of the arrows.

"Look, I don't know what Barton did to you," Will tried. "But we can help you. I won't let him hurt you, Imogen, I promise."

"You promise?" she sputtered, hand dropping from the arrows in the wake of her anger. "You can help?" She had the sudden urge to laugh, but she bit it back. "Like when you helped me after _they_ died by lying to me? When you promised you'd find the people that did it?"

His brow furrowed again. "Mum and Dad? But I-"

"I read the file," she cut him off. "It wasn't SHIELD's enemies. That was all a story you made up to make me feel better. It was HYDRA. It was always HYDRA. You knew that too, didn't you? But you never made good on that promise."

"It was a stupid thing I said when we were little! You weren't even supposed to remember it!"

"Okay, so I wasn't supposed to remember the promise you made. Whatever." She stopped to suck in a deep breath and clear her head, glaring daggers at him. "Why didn't you at least tell me _how_ they died; _why_ they died?"

"I couldn't."

"Yes, you could!" Her voice rose to a shout, though the effort of it made her head pound.

"No, I couldn't!" His voice matched hers, sending pain shooting through her brain. "You were too young," he continued in a quieter voice, taking a deep breath. "You wouldn't have understood."

"I'm twenty three, Will. I think that's old enough to know the truth."

"I know, I know," he huffed over her, stopping her. "It just never came up." His eyes ran over her, assessing every inch of her. "Look, you're tired, and hurt, and probably concussed," he pleaded with her. "Just come with me and we can talk about this when you're in a better state of mind."

"We're talking about it now," she replied stubbornly, making him sigh and pinch the bridge of his nose.

"Why does it even matter?" he asked. "They're dead. The details aren't going to change that."

"It matters because they're our _parents_, Will," she said through gritted teeth, hardly believing what she was hearing.

"You didn't even know them-"

"I watched them die!" she all but screamed at him. Silence fell over the street; her, standing, panting, alone, the five HYDRA agents staring at her. She could feel their eyes burning into her skin, marking her, branding her. She'd never be able to wash away their scrutiny, she felt in that moment, though the thought didn't bother her like it usually would. All she wanted right now was the chance to lie down and let the throbbing in her head calm and dissipate, let her wrist fall prone somewhere where stabbing pains couldn't run up and down her arm when she moved.

She was letting the pain get away with her, but she didn't care about that either.

Imogen was so distracted, she missed the fleeting glimpse she could have had of the seventh member of their party, missed him vaulting lightly over the front gate of a house nearby and walking casually up the road behind her. She noticed Will grow stiff, noticed his eyes move to something behind her, and only then did she turn to see Clint sauntering up the street to join her, like he hadn't just placed at least five HYDRA agents between himself and his freedom.

"Barton." Will spat the word out like it left a bad taste in his mouth.

"I'm guessing this is your brother?" Clint commented casually, eyeing Will.

"What are you doing here?" Imogen asked whirling to face him with a scowl on her face.

"Even better; what did you do to my sister?" Will added.

"Your brother sucks," Clint continued, ignoring both of them. "You really wanna hang out with him?"

"Will…" Imogen grit her teeth. Her head was pounding, from confusion just as much as the knock it had taken. She needed to lie down, or crawl into a quiet corner until it stopped, or something. Instead, she was surrounded by idiots.

Will turned to his remaining muscle man. "Get him," he hissed. The man who'd careened into her shoulder earlier stepped forwards menacingly. Clint's eyes widened at the sight of him.

"Could really use my bow right about now, kid," he muttered to her.

She looked down at the weapon in her hands.

"Last chance," he added lightly. She thought about it, swallowed hard, and then turned to Will.

"Tell me," she said. "Did they leave you anything? When they died?"

He looked confused, but shook his head anyway. "Nothing. You know that. What is _wrong _with you?"

"Nothing's wrong with me," she snapped, turning to Clint. Offering him the bow.

"Don't do this, Imogen," Will warned her. "He's only going to use you to do his dirty work."

"Yeah, because no one's done that before," she replied icily.

Clint took the bow, a grin splitting his previously impassive face wide open at the feeling of the familiar weapon in his hand. "Knew you were better than that," he said, reaching over her shoulder and plucking an arrow from the quiver. It sprouted from the stomach of Will's henchman a second later, and he fell with a surprised grunt, hand wrapped around the arrow.

Will looked murderous as he watched his second agent fall, but still he hung back. She wondered why. He wasn't one to let others do all the work for him. Usually, he'd be right in the middle of things, like the good leader he was.

His eyes flicked over her head, at the same time as Clint pivoted and fired behind. She turned – and barely caught a glimpse of her attacker before something heavy caught her in the side of the head.


	7. Flight Risk

**A/N: So I finally got back to this. I don't know how long it's been since I last uploaded (has it been a week? I think it's been a week 0_0 I don't even know) but I had dayyyyys of no writing time and it suckeeed. **

**Thanks to my (three?) reviewers from the last chapter for keeping me sane and reminding me that this is a thing I'm supposed to be writing. And to everyone, I apologise for how much this chapter sucks - I did run through it once, but I'm editing while tired and braindead so I've probably missed everything important xD Otherwise, enjoyyy :)**

* * *

**7: Flight Risk**

Warm arms wrapped around her. Lifting. Carrying. Drowning? No, that was just the rain. Footsteps, crunching and splashing.

The arms left, letting cold embrace her. She slumped sideways, they caught her again. Words blurred together, her aching wrist turning cold and heavy. Something slammed. Pain split her head open.

The quiet mutter of machinery waking up lulled her back to sleep.

* * *

Sunlight reached for her, burning at her eyes, turning all her dreams red and asking her to wake. She chanced a look, but the world was too bright, so she turned away and buried her head into the cushion behind her, falling again.

* * *

Silence.

No, not silence. There was the wind, pushing against the window in wild gusts, twisting the trees across the way. There was the sound of traffic rumbling on past, somewhere behind her. There was her breathing, just barely a whisper as she pulled each breath in and out.

There was her heart, trying to climb its way out of her chest as it realised she was waking.

She had a crick in her neck, an ache that nagged at her until finally she shifted and relieved it. Her head ached, centered on the right side. No shifting would relieve it. In fact, as she moved it flared, like knives poking at her brain, and then settled into a dull ache again. She stopped moving.

Her eyes drifted open, slowly, slowly. There was no sun to burn at them this time, if that really had happened; the world was overcast and filled with the long shadows of a late afternoon. She was in a car, parked outside of a…convenience store? She turned her head as far as she dared, looking down the street each way. There was nothing familiar about this place at all. How had she gotten here? How had she forgotten?

Imogen frowned in confusion, thinking back. A café. She'd met Clint there, in the rain, and then…Will had shown up. Her head pounded. The rest was a blur. Had she been fighting? She'd probably been fighting. Headaches were usually a result of fighting.

But now she was here, and it wasn't raining. She'd never seen a fight end like this. Even if she'd been knocked out, she'd always wake in the same place she'd fallen, or (god forbid) a hospital bed. Not in a strange car, in a strange place, for no immediately apparent reason.

She shifted in her seat, trying to find a more comfortable position. Something tugged at her wrist, sending white-hot pain shooting up her arm, and she froze. Well, she could remember _that _part all too clearly now. Chancing a look down, she winced at the swelling, and the handcuff pressing against it. The other end of the cuffs was fastened securely to the door handle – to stop her escaping, she supposed.

Now she _really_ wanted to know what was going on.

Whoever had been driving this car would be back soon, her mind registered, throwing years of training at her like it would help. Out, it told her. She had to get out, get away. Assess the situation. Her eyes went to the glove box in front of her – with her good, free arm, she opened it, searching for something she could use to pick the lock on the cuffs or as a weapon against this other person, but there was nothing in there but the car manual and a few miscellaneous bits of paper. The console compartment was the same. She shoved them both closed and leaned back with a huff, resigning herself to her fate. This person was smart enough to keep anything dangerous out of reach, obviously.

The doors to the convenience store (or whatever kind of shop it was; she didn't care for the specifics) opened, catching her eye. She recognised the man as soon as he walked out. Clint. Of course. She found herself relaxing at the sight of him, like he was no big threat at all (he could kill her in a split second if he wanted to, but apparently she hadn't quite digested that piece of information). She should have guessed it really, would have guessed it if her head didn't feel like it was tearing itself apart from the inside out. Half-baked kidnappings weren't really HYDRA's style – if it were them, she'd wake up in a cell, or not at all. They were Clint Barton's style though, without doubt.

"Hey kid," Clint greeted her as he climbed into the car, throwing a shopping bag into her lap.

"Not a kid," Imogen mumbled back automatically, opening the bag with one hand and peeing inside. Clothing, mainly, maybe some food underneath it all. Most importantly, a box of headache tablets and a bottle of water. She grabbed those immediately, shoving the rest of it off her lap and down to the floor by her feet.

"Knew you'd need those," he said smugly, pulling out of the car park and grinning as she downed two tablets in quick succession.

"What the hell happened?" she asked, capping the bottle and dropping it down with the rest of the stuff. "And why am I handcuffed inside a car with you?"

"Well I wasn't going to leave you to die, was I?" He sounded way too upbeat for her liking. "Not after I went to all the trouble of not killing you in the first place." Imogen almost wished he _would_ kill her, if only to spare her all this confusion.

"Will wouldn't have killed me," she argued half-heartedly.

"Maybe not, but someone else would have," Clint replied. "You're a flight risk. Which is also why you're handcuffed to the car, by the way. Didn't want you wandering off before we could talk."

"Great," she muttered, leaning back and staring down the long highway ahead of them, following it far into the distance. "How'd you get away from them?"

He shrugged. "Put a few arrows in people and they usually decide to leave you alone."

"You put one in Will?"

"Shot him in the shoulder," Clint confirmed with a nod. "Didn't think you'd be very happy if I killed him." She nodded in turn. Though she wouldn't openly admit it, she felt a rush of pleasure at the idea of Will with an arrow through his arm. He deserved it, after everything that had happened, after the web of lies he'd tangled her up in. Maybe it would keep him off her trail for a few days too; yes, that'd be nice. She needed room to breathe, to untangle the web, before she faced him again.

The fight came to mind again, more of it piecing together as she remembered. Like her handing Clint the bow, choosing SHIELD (or whatever side he was on now) over her family and HYDRA. She glanced at the backseat; sure enough, the bow and quiver were there. A few arrows sat loose, tossed in almost like a second thought, blood dripping down their shafts and from the tips to stain the car seat below. Clint didn't seem overly concerned by this, not that he should be. There was no doubt that he'd stolen the car.

Was she on the right path now? She turned back to face the road. For a moment, gnawing anxiety crept into her gut, twisting cold fingers of fear around her heart, but she squished it like a bug, watching it crawl away back into its dark corner. Worrying would do nothing for her. She could take back words, but actions were final and definite; there was no way to pretend she hadn't handed over that bow.

Clint was right. Someone would kill her for that. She had made herself a risk now, one that HYDRA could not afford to take. She was worth nothing but the bullet they'd bury between her eyes.

She was a risk Clint couldn't afford either, really, but she would address that at some other point. She already knew he'd decided he wasn't going to kill her, decided that he was going to turn her into a proper SHIELD agent or something.

"So where are we going?" Imogen sighed, pushing it all out of her mind. Just the act of thinking was making her brain hurt.

"Don't know yet," he replied, much too upbeat for her liking. She screwed up her nose at his cheer. "Just away from here."

"You going to let me out of this thing any time soon?" She gestured at the cuff with her free hand.

"Probably not."

"I'm not going to run away, or rat you out, or anything," she said sullenly.

"No, but you'll come up with something equally stupid and get yourself killed."

"Out of the two of us, you are way more likely to be the one doing something stupid," she argued.

"What makes you say that?"

She rolled her eyes. "Well for a start, you put yourself right in the middle of six HYDRA agents, without weapons or a proper plan."

He thought about it for a moment, and then agreed with a reluctant sigh. "I can get myself _out _of trouble though," he defended. "_Your_ escape plan was literally to fire arrows around them while they beat you up."

"Around them? I would have hit them," she replied haughtily.

"Your whole form is terrible," he informed her gleefully. "You wouldn't hit the side of a mountain."

"I think I could hit them at least _once _when they're that close."

"Yeah?" He laughed at her. "Well you just keep telling yourself that. Next time I might just watch."

Huffing a sigh, she gave up on arguing with him and sunk lower in her seat instead, moving carefully to avoid jostling her bad arm. Her head hurt too much to be bothered with him; she'd come back to it later, when she had an actual comeback.

Reveling in his win, Clint reached over and switched on the radio, tuning into some fresh mix station playing trashy pop music. They kept driving.

* * *

"Man, he got you _good_."

Will hissed as Murphy pressed down on the arrow wound in his shoulder, trying to stop the bleeding. "Can you just _stich it up_ already?" he asked, a little more forcefully than he probably should have (but damn manners or anything of the sort; he'd just had an arrowhead dug out of his shoulder, he was entitled to a snap every now and then).

The techie looked alarmed for a minute, then slowly peeled away the wad of material he had in his hand to peer at the wound. "Hey, it's not like they go over 'arrow wounds' in the basic med course," he replied, pressing down again.

"It's the same as getting shot with a bullet, just stitch it up already."

Murphy rolled his eyes. "Hold this then," he instructed, leaving Will to press down on the wound and reaching for the medical kit beside him, searching out a needle and thread. "You better not hit me," he muttered as he prepared. "Last time I stitched up John, he gave me a black eye."

"I'm not going to hit you," Will replied through clenched teeth.

Murphy grunted, and pried his hand away from his shoulder, swabbing it with something that made it twice as painful. Will grit his teeth. No wonder John had punched him.

A shadow loomed over the both of them, distracting Will from the pain in his shoulder. He glanced up, and found himself staring straight into the eyes of his commanding officer. Not exactly the person he'd been hoping to see while seated at the back of a van half-dressed in tac gear, while blood slowly trickled down his arm.

The man waved a piece of paper at him. "This report better not be a joke, Haylock," he said, his gaze unwavering. "If you filed this just because you want your sister back-"

Will shook his head. "You really think I'd do that, Agent Morrell?" he asked.

"Your record is outstanding," Morrell replied. "Which is why I'm inclined to believe you." He handed the report back to Will. "You're in charge of this mission. Find her, bring her back."

"Yes sir."

"Oh, and Haylock?" Will looked up again. "She's not one of us. Remember that. HYDRA don't show mercy to the people who work against us." He swallowed hard, and nodded. Morrell left.

"What was that about?" Murphy asked a moment later, turning to wash his hands and grab a clean bandage.

"This," Will replied, holding out the report for him to read. Not for the first time that day, Murphy's eyes widened. "I'm going to need your help with this, Murph."

"Of course," he replied, setting about bandaging. "I'll find her. This is the biggest mission we've ever been given; there is no way I'm sitting out."

"There's no way I'd _let_ you sit out. Can't have you getting slack."

"Done," Murphy announced, snapping the med kit closed. "I'm guessing you want to get to work straight away."

Will touched the bandages on his shoulder, and then reached for his shirt. "Of course," he replied easily, pulling the shirt on. "We need to find her _fast_. Before Barton can take her out of range."

"Any idea what he wants with her?" The techie shoved his medical supplies into a corner and climbed further into the van, waking up a bank of computers.

"Not yet." Will followed him in, watching the screens blink to life. They were already searching for the two runaways, but had yet to find anything, much to his contempt. "I'll find out soon enough though."

Murphy had no doubt of it.


	8. Mistrust

**A/N: This took me so long, I know, and I'm so sorry. Hopefully there's still people even reading this .-. To kind of make up for it, at least this is the longest chapter so far? Enjoyyyy :)**

* * *

**8: Mistrust**

There comes a point when even a sniper, conditioned for hours of waiting and watching, must sleep.

Imogen had lost count of how many towns they'd skirted around, how many long highways they'd followed. Night had come and gone twice (or thereabouts), but somehow, Clint was still driving, only stopping when he was about to run out of fuel. If she felt tired and stiff, despite dozing her way through a good part of the trip, she couldn't imagine how weary he must be.

"You need to stop," she said eventually, as the lights of another town came into view, drawing closer and closer.

"I'm fine," he insisted. "Just…just gotta-" A yawn cut him off. Imogen rolled her eyes.

"I _can_ drive, you know," she said.

He laughed. "I brought you along, sure, but don't start thinking that means I trust you."

"That's not what I'm thinking."

"Well…good. Because I don't."

"I'd like to live through the day though."

"What d'you mean?"

She huffed impatiently. "I _mean_, you're going to crash this car and kill us both if you don't _stop driving_." Finally, she saw him take a minute to think about it, eyes fixed to the road. They were drawing closer and closer to civilization; he'd have to find a way around the town soon, if he wanted to avoid it like he had every other place they'd passed. For the first time in two days though, he showed no signs of turning off.

The faintest semblance of hope rose in her chest. Maybe he'd _finally_ seen the light. He definitely needed to rest. Surely he could see that too.

"Fine," he relented with a sigh. Satisfied, she nodded, turned back to the road, and slid lower in her seat, curling up like a cat. Ten minutes later, he finally pulled into a hotel. She waited patiently as he organised a room, and stealthily moved his bow and a bag full of god-knows-what inside, before freeing her from the cuffs. Aware of his careful gaze on her, she stepped out of the car into a dark, cold morning, stretching out her stiff muscles. Her eyes drifted towards the motel entrance, towards the numerous escape routes around the place, all open paths to freedom now that she was unbound, but her feet followed Clint, her escapes left untouched.

The room was dark and dank, with a lingering smell of mildew, but it was clean, with fresh linen and sturdy furniture. There was an old radiator in the corner, marking just how old the building was; Clint put the cuffs down on top of it. "Go and have a shower, clean yourself up," he told her, pointing at the small adjoining bathroom. "I'll put those back on when you're done." She didn't argue, just took the clothes he threw at her from his bag of mysteries and went, closing the door behind her. There was a mirror directly opposite, throwing her reflection in her face right as she turned around. For the first time, she realised just how dirty she really was, just how much she really _did_ need new clothes (her shirt alone was pockmarked with tears from numerous thorny bushes, dirt practically ingrained in the material from her adventures. She screwed up her nose and turned away from it again.

Her whole body melted under the hot water of the shower, muscles that had been stiff and sore since the fight loosening and relaxing for the first time in days, feeling almost normal. There was soap in there, the usual little tube that comes in hotel rooms, and she used all of it, scrubbing herself all over and watching dirt from gardens and ditches and streets wash away in cloudy bubbles.

The clothes turned out to be another matter entirely. Clint apparently had very little fashion sense; the pair of soft black track pants were all well and good, but the bright purple shirt just about hurt to look at…not to mention the loud 'I Heart Hawkeye' emblazoned across the front. She assumed it was Clint's idea of a joke. It wasn't very funny. He could have done better.

Imogen glanced at her old shirt. Dirty, ripped, and stiff with sweat, it wasn't the most inviting piece of clothing. A loud sigh escaped her. He could have at least bought her a normal shirt. Reluctantly, she pulled on the shirt and left the bathroom, preparing a speech with which to chew Clint out about his idea of good clothing choice.

The plan didn't get much further. Barton, it turned out, had _really _needed that rest – he was stretched out on the bed, fast asleep. Hadn't even lasted the time it took for her to shower, after all that, she thought with amusement. She glanced at the cuffs, lying forgotten on the radiation. Should she do it herself? The idea wasn't one of her favourites, and the couch across the room looked much more inviting. Besides, it wasn't like Clint was waking up any time soon.

The choice was easy, then. She drew the curtains closed, shutting out the morning sun, and then settled down in the couch to wait.

* * *

It was still morning when Clint began to toss and turn, drawing her attention. At first, it was just the occasional twitch, disturbing her from her own attempts to fall asleep, a muttered word here and there that she had no hope of making out. His distress built as the morning wore on, movement becoming more violent, incoherent mumbling growing louder. For a while, she just sat and watched, not sure what to do – as he grew more frantic though, it became increasingly apparent that she'd have to do _something_, if only to keep anyone from coming to see what was going on.

Were you supposed to wake people who were caught in a nightmare? She had a feeling she'd read something once that said no, waking him would be dangerous (and not just for her, what with the weapon that was undoubtedly hidden under his pillow) – but she also saw no other solution to the problem.

He'd better not kill her, she thought. She hadn't come all this way just to end up dead.

Standing behind him, she reached out and gave him a solid shove, then ducked for cover. He shot up, wide-eyed and breathing heavily, a gun pointed at the spot where her head had been just seconds before. She peeked out at him from over the mattress, having dropped to a crouch next to the bed, waiting for a sign that it was safe to stand again.

Only once he had run his eyes over the entire room did he slowly lower the gun and regain control of his breathing. She stood and then perched on the end of the bed, staring at the floral curtains Clint had nearly put a bullet through. In the corner of her eye, she saw him glance between her and the cuffs several times. "Didn't I, uh…" He gestured uselessly, but she got what he was trying to say and shook her head.

"You fell asleep," she told him bluntly.

"Right." Silence. "Why'd you wake me up?"

Imogen shrugged. "You were moving around a lot, and muttering. Figured I should wake you up before someone next door complained or something."

"Right."

"Nightmares?" she asked casually. He eyed her suspiciously, and didn't answer. She rolled her eyes. "Obviously nightmares."

"Everyone has nightmares," Clint replied defensively.

"Not me," she replied. He raised an eyebrow in disbelief. She shrugged. "Never had a dream in my life."

"Right." It wasn't hard to tell that he didn't believe her. "Stay here," he instructed unnecessarily, standing and stumbling into the bathroom. Rolling her eyes once more, she returned to the couch.

* * *

They didn't speak another word to each other until they were back on the road again, Clint with his second cup of coffee in hand. "Nice shirt," he commented as he turned onto the highway.

Imogen felt the urge to punch him, and reeled it back in fast. "I hate you," she muttered instead, glancing down at the item of clothing in question.

"A lot of people say that," he informed her cheerfully.

"I'm not surprised. No one likes a guy who buys his own shirt."

He glanced at the 'I Heart Hawkeye' on her shirt again, looking amused. "I thought it might inspire you."

"To do what?!"

"Refrain from killing me."

"Are you ever going to get over that?"

"Are you handcuffed to the door?"

She glanced down at her arm (now free), and sullenly accepted his point. "You gonna let me drive so you can sleep?" she asked instead.

He shook his head. "I got plenty of sleep."

"You got like, four hours. If that."

"Four hours is plenty."

"You know you're not superhuman, right?" She fixed him with a look of contempt as she said it, making him shift uncomfortably.

"Says who?" he shot back, pretending to be unfazed. "I am a _superhero_ you know."

"A regular one. You're the most regular superhero there is."

"And you're really mean."

"No." She dropped her gaze, looking down at her hands instead, folded neatly in her lap. "I'm just honest. It's not my fault if what's true hurts."

Clint reached up to rub the back of his neck, and then grabbed at his coffee again. "Dunno kid. Still think you might just be mean."

"Think what you want," Imogen replied with a shrug. "Everyone else does. And I'm not a kid." Without giving him a chance to reply, she reached out and turned the radio on, flicking it to the first station that she could find. He got the point, and left it alone, letting unfamiliar music filter through the dusty speakers and fill up the car as they drove on.

* * *

Sleep didn't come to either that day, just hours of staring down road after road. Clint didn't need any prompting to turn into a motel as dusk drew on, much to Imogen's satisfaction. This one wasn't much better than the last place they'd visited – small and cheap, but clean at least, just a bed and a bathroom and not much else (there was a TV here at least, almost making up for the armchair she'd have to curl up in).

It was a warm night, despite the intermittent breeze that picked up every now and then to provide a few seconds of sweet relief before the heat pressed in again. There was no air conditioner, so they threw the window wide open to catch what wind there was, snipers across the way be damned. Clint claimed the bed, leaving her with the armchair, as she'd expected. For a couple hours, she curled up there and tried to sleep, but dangerous things came swirling through her head, keeping her awake, thoughts she hadn't entertained in days. She'd been deliberately keeping herself busy with other thoughts, focusing in on the concussion that had disappeared in the last day or so and driving far, far away from all her troubles.

HYDRA. Item 548. Her parents. Will.

Lies and liars. All of them. She hated liars.

It was too much, too much to push away and fall asleep in peace. Throwing off any impressions of sleep, she stood and padded quietly across the room, footsteps muffled by the carpet, easing the door open just enough for her to slip through, closing it just as carefully.

She glanced back through the window. Clint still appeared to be sleeping. Nodding to herself, she buried her hands in her pockets and wandered away towards the motel entrance. The pavement was warm beneath her bare feet, just cool enough not to burn them, the stone holding desperately onto the warmth of the sun that had beat down on it all day. She stopped at the entrance, considering the quiet road beyond, but still she felt no urge to run. What would be the point anyway? Clint would find her, or HYDRA would find her, or she'd just get settled in some kind of life and everything would catch up to her. Running away never worked; once you started, you couldn't stop. Things always caught up to you in the end.

Imogen wasn't the running away type anyway. That was half her trouble – she never backed down or turned away (the other half of her trouble was her brutal honesty, probably. People didn't like seeing the truth).

Turning away from the road, she circled around the long row of motel rooms and parked cars to the back of the building. Everything was more scattered here; there was what looked like a laundromat, still awake even in the middle of the night, a dark barbeque area, and a playground. Down the back and surrounded by a fence was a pool, the whole area illuminated by the soft glow of underwater lights. She drifted towards it, soon finding herself sitting cross-legged at the very edge of the pool, staring down into its depths.

Clint found her there too. She heard his light footsteps, heard him open and close the gate. "Thought you were asleep," she said casually as his feet stopped beside her, clad as every in a pair of heavy black combat boots.

"Woke up when you left," his voice replied from somewhere above her. Grunting, she turned her attention back to the pool. "What are you doing out here anyway?"

She shrugged, pulling her jacket closer around her. "Couldn't sleep," she admitted in an unusually quiet voice.

"So you decided to hang out by the pool?"

"You got any better ideas?" she snapped back.

"Well," he drawled lazily. "There's a nice playground back there…" She didn't even deign to answer. Eventually, he sighed and lowered himself down to the pavers as well, a careful distance from the water.

"Any idea where you're driving to yet?" she asked, just to break the silence.

"Maybe," he replied, trying his best to be mysterious.

"So no, not really then," she said with a roll of her eyes.

Clint almost looked offended. "I know where I'm going!"

"But you're not going to tell me."

"Nope." His voice was smug, just like his face when she glanced at him. Rolling her eyes once more, she returned her gaze to the water. Silence fell over them both, reclaiming the warm night – in the absence of the wind, nothing moved, the world dark and still and quiet under the watchful eye of the moon.

Imogen didn't like it, didn't trust the quiet. All too often, silence came before action, before an attack, before danger. "Clint?" she asked, just to break it. He hummed in reply. "What would you do? If you weren't a SHIELD agent? If you left right now?"

He paused, deep in thought. "I dunno," he replied. "Teach archery maybe. Or be a farmer."

"A farmer?"

"Yeah." He was nodding along now, growing more enthusiastic about the idea by the second. "With like, cows and chickens and stuff."

"Why?" Wrinkling her nose, she tried to imagine being a farmer. It wasn't an appealing idea to her – she'd never been a fan of animals, farm or otherwise.

Clint shrugged. "Nice and peaceful out in the country, miles from anywhere." A wicked grin dawned. "No crazy kids coming to kill me."

"Not a kid," she reminded him, but she smiled anyway.

"Yeah, just keep telling yourself that. Maybe one day I'll believe you."

"You're ridiculous."

He ignored her. "So _kid_," he said. "What would _you _do?"

Imogen froze. In truth, she hadn't ever really thought about it – and when she had, she'd never come up with an answer. Her knowledge of the world was stunted, much as she hated to admit it. "I don't know," she replied after a beat. "Go and study something, I guess? That's what people do, isn't it?" She laughed. "End up in jail probably."

Wordlessly, Clint stood and offered her a hand up, which she took. They walked back to the room in silence. There was a buzzing noise when they got back, coming from Clint's bag. Imogen had thought it was just weapons and questionably obtained cash, but now, as he rifled through its contents and produced her phone (which she'd been sure she'd lost), it became apparent that there was a whole lot more secreted away in there.

She forgot about the rest as soon as she saw the phone though. "Why do you have that?" she demanded, storming across the room to stand face-to-face with him.

Alarmed, his eyes widened, his first instinct to raise the phone above his head to where she couldn't reach it. "How does this thing even have battery still?" he asked, backing away from her and looking up at the screen.

"It's a Starkphone," she snapped, stalking after him. "They can run for a week between charges."

"Your brother's calling," Clint hit the wall with a grunt, eyes still turned upwards. "Why's he calling?" The buzzing stopped, the call unanswered. Clint's eyebrows shot up. "That's a lot of calls."

She stood in front of him, arms crossed. "Maybe you should answer him," she said impetuously. "See what he wants."

"No way." His eyes finally tore away from the phone above his head. "Phone call from the enemy? _Obviously_ a trap. Are you stupid?"

"I'm not stupid," she argued. "Give me my phone back."

"No." Before she could as much as blink, he whipped the phone down and into his pocket. "Stay. Away." He poked her hard twice in the shoulder, making her flinch away, rubbing her shoulder. Taking his chance, he slipped past her and collapsed on the bed, closing his eyes and feigning sleep.


	9. Chasing Birds

**9: Chasing Birds**

"She's not picking up."

"I know Murphy."

The techie tapped a few keys on his keyboard. "I can't get a fix on her if she doesn't pick up."

"I _know._" He pressed the call button again.

"How do we even know she still has her phone?"

"Barton has it," Will said. "Picked it up when he took her."

"Why?"

"I don't _know_ Murphy." His voice was long-suffering now. "Why does that crazy archer do anything?"

Murphy just gave him a look, and then turned back to his screen. The phone rang out.

From the front of the van came an impatient sigh. Keely's face appeared between the curtains that separated back from front, eyeing them both. "Do you have anything yet?" she asked. Murphy shook his head and she ran a hand through her short black hair. "I need a smoke," she declared, disappearing again.

"You're not supposed to do that in the field," Will called half-heartedly.

"Give me something to do and I'll stop," came her reply, just before she slammed the door closed. He didn't move; there was no real point in stopping her. After all, John wasn't supposed to be snoring loudly in the front seat either, and if he stopped Keely from smoking, he'd have to wake John up – and no one wanted that. John wasn't the sort of person you snuck up on if you valued your health and wellbeing.

He called Imogen again.

"How do you know she'll even pick up?" Murphy asked. "You're not exactly the number one person she's going to want to talk to right now."

"She'll pick up." His voice left no room for doubt. "I know my sister. She'll pick up."

"You sure sound confident about that."

Will shrugged. "People become predictable, once you know them well enough. Imogen works on the truth. A long as she knows she's been lied to, she'll give anything to know the real story."

"She used to be such a good kid." Murphy leant back in his chair, swinging from side to side. He'd met her once or twice, he recalled, when she'd been around to see Will or the team had been stationed at the same base as her. Then, he'd thought she was nice enough, if a little rough around the edges. And anyway, from what he'd heard, she had reason enough to be. It didn't really bother him all that much. Now she was a fugitive, an enemy of HYDRA. He was having a hard time reconciling that description with the small blonde he remembered.

Will laughed. "She was never a good kid," he corrected. "I kept her out of trouble/ Thought she'd stop being so pigheaded once she got into training, but…"

Murphy could see his thoughts written all over his face, and paused in his endless searching. "It's not your fault, you know," he told Will. "It was her choice to go and find Barton."

"Maybe you're right," the other man sighed. Nodding to himself, Murphy turned back to his computers.

The phone stopped mid-ring.

* * *

Clint turned down the radio.

Imogen glanced at him, slouched in the passenger seat inspecting the fletching of an arrow, his feet settled on the dash, and looked back to the road, trying to ignore the sudden quiet. "Why'd you join HYDRA?" he asked finally.

Her grip on the steering wheel tightened. "Why'd you join SHIELD?" she shot back, automatically shifting to defensive.

In the corner of her eye, she could see him give her a strange look. There was a long pause, and then, "I don't know if you're being serious or not." His attention moved back to his arrows.

"I'm serious," she decided firmly.

He sighed. "I'll tell you if you'll tell me?"

"You first."

Another sigh, and then a shrug. The arrow in his hands rolled back and forth between his fingers. "I was working as an assassin; you know, hired to kill and all that. Made a name for myself." He held up the arrow and let out a humourless laugh, sobering quickly. "Pretty easy when you use a unique weapon. Anyway, I was camped out on a rooftop in the middle of the night somewhere in Brazil, waiting for this one drug lord to come into sight, when I see these guys in heavy combat gear lurking around. I'd been scoping this place out for days and I knew they weren't supposed to be there, so I get down off the roof and leg it. Thought I'd given them the slip, and then this one guy _in a _suit starts chasing me, and he's _good._ Kept following and following, and I couldn't shake him off."

"What'd you do?" she asked, when he descended into silence, staring at the arrow.

Clint smiled faintly, but there was a hollow, haunted look in his eyes now, a slight shake to his hands that she put down to a trick of the light. "He caught up to me when I turned into a dead end, and then tripped on a tree root and busted my ankle. There I am, limping around, and this guy in a suit appears and says, 'Clint Barton? I'd like to talk to you about conviction'."

"Conviction?" She frowned at the term.

Clint nodded. "Yeah, conviction. Coulson was pretty big on the idea."

"Sounds stupid to me."

He laughed. "Me too. Convinced me to join SHIELD though."

"So you joined because someone gave you a speech about loyalty?"

"I joined because it was better than just killing for money. Because it was a job that let me sleep at night."

"Until HYDRA came about," she added.

Clint nodded. "So?"

"So what?"

"Why'd you join HYDRA?"

"Because Will did," she said slowly. "And he joined because our parents filled him up with HYDRA propaganda before I was even born. He's eight years older than me, you know."

"They didn't do it to you?"

She waved him off casually. "Probably. I don't remember them."

"Do you remember them dying?"

She glanced at him sharply, then glued her eyes to the road. "What?" she asked, before remembering what she'd been saying to Will moments before Clint showed up in that street a few days ago. _I watched them die!_ He must have heard her then.

Clint was still looking at her, waiting; she could see him in the corner of her eye, however hard she tried not to. Imogen swallowed hard, trying to get rid of the lump in her throat.

"Yeah," she admitted finally. "I remember that. I mean-" Reaching up, she pulled the neck of her shirt down low enough to reveal her collarbone, and the long, jagged scar she usually kept covered that ran above it. "-they left me enough of a reminder." She let the shirt go, covering it again. "I was five. They tried to slit my throat," she continued, just to fill the silence. "I got lucky."

"Sorry, kid." Clint fell silent.

A gas station came into view ahead, a tall sign loudly telling anyone who passed by about the newly opened McDonalds there. "You hungry?" he asked suddenly.

"Really?" she asked, not impressed.

"They have good coffee."

"You're ridiculous."

"What's ridiculous about coffee?"

"It's the middle of the day."

He sighed. "Just pull over."

She did as he said, then sat and waited while he refueled. "You want anything?" he asked through the window.

"No way," she replied, curling her lip. He shrugged and wandered off.

There was a faint buzzing noise coming from the back seat, only audible now that the engine was silent. Her phone again…and again, and again. Groaning, she tried to ignore it, but it was like a bug you couldn't quite pin down, making just enough noise to annoy you.

Four calls in and she was over it. Why had she made her own phone so annoying? Twisting around, she reached for Clint's bag and rummaged through it – _why _did he have so much stuff – almost cutting herself on a loose arrowhead as she retrieved the phone. The call rang out as she slumped back down in her seat, letting her unlock and scroll through her messages. They were all from Will, of course, the latest sent the night before.

_Imogen, call me back._

_I know you have your phone._

_Just talk to me?_

_Thought we were supposed to be family._

_After everything I've done for you, you can't even give me one call?_

_I should have-_

Another call came through, and without thinking about it she punched the reject button. "Damn it," she muttered to herself a moment later, when she realised that he'd now know she was paying attention. Her phone returned to the messages.

_I should have expected this from you._

_You've always been a lost cause._

That one hurt the most. Will had bailed her out of a lot of trouble over the years, but that was the first time he'd given up on her.

A new message came through, pushing the old ones away. _Hi Imogen._ And another. _We need to talk._

She hesitated, then tapped out a reply. _About what?_

_Mum and Dad. And you._

_And if I don't care anymore?_

_What about Item 548? I know you read the report._

She called him.

He answered on the first ring. "Hey Immy."

"Don't call me that."

"Why not?"

"'You've always been a lost cause.' Really?"

She heard him sigh and felt a grim satisfaction at the sound. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean it."

"Yeah, whatever. What do you want?"

"Why are you doing this?" He sounded pained.

She had an answer for him this time. "Oh, I don't know, maybe because HYDRA killed our parents and then sent me out to be killed too?"

"That mission was a mistake, Imogen. No one wanted you to die."

"Yeah? And what about Mum and Dad?"

"They were traitors. Mum tried to sabotage the Soldier program, was working on something that would have crippled HYDRA for good. Dad wanted out, wanted to sell everything he knew to the highest bidder."

"Good."

"Good? HYDRA is trying to build a better world, and its people like them that tear it all apart."

"HYDRA were going to kill millions of people. I've seen the news. You can't just kill people for standing up for what they believe in."

"You don't understand-"

"I do!" She smacked her fist into the seat, pushing down against the cushion.

"No you don't. You never have. And you never will." He was angry too now. "You're a puppet, a project, and you always will be."

"What the hell are you talking about?" she asked, gritting her teeth. Clint appeared outside the gas station, coffee in hand. She should hang up now, if she didn't want him to know, but she couldn't bring herself to, not without knowing just _why_ he was saying these things.

Will _laughed_. "See, I told you you'd want to know. I'm talking about-" A hand grabbed her wrist, pulling the phone away from her ear and then out of her grip entirely, cancelling the call.

"Call from the enemy. Trap," Clint said, his voice dark. "Didn't we talk about this?" She shrugged. "I'm driving, by the way. Get out."

Wordlessly, Imogen slid out of the driver's seat and rounded the car, climbing back in on the other side. Clint barely gave her time to shut the door before he drove off, going faster than was probably legally allowed (not that she was going to question it).

His quiet disapproval bothered her. Usually, she didn't care if other people thought badly of her, but when it was clear that Clint didn't approve? Well, _now _she cared. It annoyed her too – she didn't want to care what he thought. Why would she? It made no sense.

"Sorry," she muttered eventually, if only to put her own mind to rest.

Clint nodded, just once. "What did he say?" he asked.

"Something about our parents being traitors." She shrugged, as if it were no big deal.

"That's it?"

Imogen hesitated. "He said I was a puppet," she added finally. "And a lost cause."

Clint gave her a smile. "That's alright," he said. "I was both those things too."


	10. What, Not Who

**A/N: Hey guysss, here's a semi-not-late update. Hope you're still enjoying this xD I haven't had any reviews in a while, but I assume you're all reading still. Why not drop a note to say hi and let me know you're still here? You could tell me who your favourite character is, what you think is going to happen in future chapters, what you'd like to see happen...**

**On another note; if you'd like to rp with me (I play Imogen or Will or Clint or maybe the other Avengers), or just have Marvel stuff coming up on your tumblr, you can find me at .com**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**10: What, Not Who**

It was bugging her now.

Things had a way of doing that lately, of wheedling their way into Imogen's brain and setting up camp. Item 548 was just the latest in a long list. It was the one thing Will hadn't quite gotten to, the one thing that had seemed unimportant when she first read its name, but kept coming up. Which meant it _was_ important after all, _must _be important, whatever _it _was.

She turned down the radio.

Clint's attention snapped to her instantly. It had become their ritual over the days – the radio began and ended all conversations, had plenty to say when they had run themselves dry. Both were loners by nature, neither especially talkative nor friendly for any long period of time, and certainly not used to being trapped in the close confines of a car together for days and days. There just wasn't enough to talk about to fill all those hours, so the radio filled it for them – sometimes with music, sometimes just with talk about nothing in particular.

"Have you ever heard of Item 548?" she asked.

Clint took a moment to think about it, and then shook his head. "Don't think so. Why?"

"It was in a report that I read, about Will. Didn't think it was _that_ important, but he mentioned it earlier."

"Well, I've got nothing. Sorry kid."

"Not a kid." That made him smile.

Clint found an actual hotel, one with multiple stories and fancy rooms that were more like small apartments than hotel suites. He wasn't happy with it (he liked motels that were full of anonymous truck drivers and backpackers, Imogen had learnt – easier to be forgotten there). There weren't any places like that in this town though, or at least not from what they had seen of it. At 2am, Imogen refused to look any further when they had already found a perfectly acceptable place. "Pull in there, or find a comfortable abandoned building or something," she told him eventually, in no uncertain terms.

In her opinion, the best part of the hotel was the two bedrooms, meaning she wouldn't have to sleep on a lumpy old couch again. It was absolute heaven to stretch out on a bed for the first time in…a week? At least a week by now, surely. Clint just shrugged when she asked him, still unhappily focused on the balcony. He didn't want to be on the third floor. She was beyond caring, weary of the endless travel and uncomfortable sleeping arrangements of the past.

For a little while, she flicked through TV channels, ignoring Clint's endless muttering about Dog Cops (which wasn't even a good show anyway, so who knew why Barton was getting so worked up about it). Eventually, having proved there was absolutely nothing good on at 2 in the morning, she threw the remote at him, almost nailing him right in the forehead, and retreated to bed, dropping off to sleep almost immediately.

Shadows chased each other through her sleep and stunted dreams, just vague figures silhouetted every now and then by flickered lights, never substantial enough to really catch her attention. She floated in the middle of it all, calm despite the strangeness of the almost-dreaming.

A solid thud echoing up the hall outside pilled her from the shadows, melting them away into the back of her mind for her to forget about. Blearily, she sat up and pushed messy curls out of her eyes, glancing at the clock up on the wall. She could just make out the hands, pointing out something like four thirty.

Groaning, she flopped back down again, rubbing her eyes and wondering why she'd woken. The thudding noise came again, accompanied with the sound of splintering wood, deafening in the still of predawn. She waited a moment, listening for any sign of life from Clint next door. There was nothing. He was a quiet sleeper, as all good agents were. With an exaggerated sigh, she dragged herself out of bed and padded out to Clint's room. What the hell was going on out there anyway? Was this what usually happened early in the morning in nice hotels?

Clint was fast asleep, just as she'd thought. Quiet aside, he was a heavier sleeper than you'd expect. She threw a boot at him from the doorway, catching him square in the stomach, and he woke with a start, gun in hand as always. He relaxed when he saw her, dropping the weapon onto the bed beside him.

"What the hell," he mumbled blearily, rubbing at his eyes. His head landed back on his pillow a moment later, as if he expected to go back to sleep again any time soon.

"There's something going on outside." Another thud accentuated her words.

Clint moaned. "This is already the worst day ever," he complained. "And it's not even five in the morning."

"Clint, focus. Weird noises in the hallway."

He blinked at her a few times, and then sat up abruptly at the next thud. "Now that you mention it, that is kind of weird," he said through a muffled yawn. "Kind of spooky."

"Right."

"Probably-" Another yawn cut him off entirely. "Probably HYDRA."

"How'd you figure that?"

He stared at her like she was the biggest idiot he'd ever met. "They traced that call you made you yesterday."

"Don't blame this on me," she said, instantly defensive.

"Well it's your fault." He swung out of bed, pulling on his boots.

"Seriously? He was ringing me!"

"And you answered. Shut up, I'm trying to figure out an escape route."

"We're on the third floor with HYDRA knocking on the door, where are we going to escape _to_?"

He huffed a sigh as he circled the room. "See, this is why I didn't want to stop here."

She rolled her eyes in return. "Don't even start."

The lights of the town outside the window drew her eye, shining through the glass doors of the balcony. Well, good thing they had one of those. That would be so _handy_. "Well, if nothing else, we can always throw ourselves off the balcony," she commented, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Clint followed her gaze, the spark of an idea lighting in his eyes. Before she knew it, he had opened the doors wide and stepped out, slipping out into the shadows to the railing. "I was kidding!" she hissed from the safety of the room, watching with wide eyes as he poked his head out and looked both up and down, assessing something. "Clint-" He was steadfastly ignoring her, returning to the room and passing her by, heading back to the bedroom. The heavy sound of a foot hitting a door came from close by, too close for comfort. They were only one or two doors away now, and not losing any time.

Clint returned with his bow in hand, bag and quiver on his back. He stalked back out onto the balcony, throwing her own boots at her as he passed. "Oh my god," she near whispered in disbelief, watching him as she pulled on the shoes. "Clint Barton, if you jump off this damn building, I swear-"

"We're not jumping _all_ the way," he said, peering up again and drawing an arrow. "Come and keep an eye on the idiots down there. Don't want bullets in my head while I'm trying to do this."

"But we are jumping?" She swallowed hard and darted out to join him, her heart quickening at the dizzying drop and HYDRA agents below. None of them had thought to look up yet; all eyes were in the front doors of the hotel. For now.

There was a heavy thud right next door, the sound of a door slamming open. Imogen glanced at their own door without really meaning to; it was sturdy and silent, of course, not yet disturbed. She looked back at Clint, who looked completely unconcerned at the impending invasion, and checked on the agents down below again. "Hurry up!" she hissed at him. Grunting in response, he took his shot, the arrow clanging against the railing of the balcony above theirs, and then ducked down, dragging her with him out of sight just as several of the agents on the ground looked upwards at the unexpected noise.

"What are you doing?" she asked as Clint crept forward again.

"Getting us out of here," he murmured in reply. One strong hand gripped her elbow, pulling her to her feet and shoving her towards the railing. "Climb," he instructed, doing just that. She followed him over, clinging to the railing like a limpet until he grabbed her arm again, pulling it free. "Hold onto me." She hesitated, eyes falling towards the ground. There was a thud at the door behind them, a splintering noise that spurred her into action; in the blink of an eye, her hands had left the railing and she was clinging to him instead, trying not to think about just how close to falling she was.

HYDRA charged through the door and Clint leapt. For a moment she thought they were falling but no, the ground had only grown a little closer – they were _swinging_, down to the next balcony and in. She glanced up, saw a silvery length of something akin to rope reaching from his bow up to the fourth floor balcony, like a human-sized spider web.

"Grappling hook arrow," he said smugly as he swung into the second floor. One, two, three bullets glanced off the metal railing, leaving it ringing in their ears, more shots zinging past their heads, all fired just a moment too late. Imogen felt her feet touch the ground and stumbled, letting go of Clint as she lost her balance and fell into a roll. The hawk didn't even land on his feet, just freed his bow and came crashing down, cracking his head on the concrete floor.

With little sympathy, she found her own feet and then hauled him up as well, grabbing his bow as she did. "Alright, nice trick, now get moving," she told him, and gave him another shove.

"Aw, head," he muttered as he did as he was told, moving through the room and an already busted front door to an empty hallway beyond. There was a shout from above, a corresponding one from below, and she grit her teeth, trying to think.

"Stairs," Clint said, recovered enough to pull her along and down. Their steps echoed loudly up and down the spiraling stairwell, but even over the din their own feet made, Imogen could hear at least two others heading down with them. At the bottom of the stairs, Clint paused to jam the heavy door shut as best he could and then directed her to the left, darting down dark and empty halls until they reached a bar of sorts, closed for the night. One whole wall was made of glass; he didn't hesitate to put a round of bullets through one pane, not even blinking as the whole thing shattered and fell in a million tiny pieces that crunched and cracked under the thick tread of their boots.

They emerged into a cold, moonless night, an empty road stretching left and right. "Now what?" she whispered, stepping out onto the road and looking around.

"Need a car," Clint muttered in response, his eyes alighting on one parked just a few metres away – not as good as the one they'd been driving a few hours ago, she noticed, but serviceable. "That'll do."

There was a click behind them.

Imogen whirled around, almost as quickly as Clint, and found herself staring straight into the cold blue eyes of her brother – eyes that she shared, she remembered suddenly. His gun was pointed at Clint, keeping the bigger threat from drawing any kind of weapon. The bow was still in her grasp, she realised, her fingers clenched so tight around it that her knuckles had turned white. Her heart leapt into her throat as Clint grew still, hands well away from any of his weapons. "Drop the bow," Will instructed, glancing at her with the look he always had when he was about to snap. She glanced at the archer next to her who shrugged, and then back at Will, who caught her eye with fierce purpose.

The bow didn't move.

"Imogen," Will said through gritted teeth, the way he did when she had done something especially stupid, when he was about at the end of his tether. As always, she faced him with a spark of rebellion in her eyes, in the way she stood, drifting into the air she breathed. "Drop the bow," he repeated.

"No," she said, mentally cringing at how child-like the simple refusal sounded.

"Drop it, or I'll kill him." He gestured wildly at Clint with the gun, never straying from a killing shot.

"Imogen," Clint interrupted quietly, just as her mouth opened to hurl some cutting reply that she'd probably regret later. His voice was calmer at steady, calmer than most people would be when staring down the barrel of a gun, their life placed in her hands. It meant he had a plan. Hopefully. A plan he'd need to be alive to execute.

The bow slipped through her fingers and clattered to the ground by her feet, cracking open the quiet that had settled over them. Will smiled but it didn't reach his eyes, and the gun didn't drop an inch. There was no relieved sigh, no forgiveness or attempts to heal the rift that had opened between them. This Will was cold and hard and logical, so grown on the lies of HYDRA that he wouldn't ever be able to see past them, to see the truth. This Will had no siblings to care for; he had HYDRA, and nothing more.

Their fight was between SHIELD and HYDRA now. As it always had been.

"Did you really think you could just run away?" he asked her. "Just leave your whole life, without any kind of retribution?"

"No," she replied. "Didn't think I'd be worth this much trouble though. How'd you get so much support for a personal mission?"

"It's not personal," he snarled, the finger on the trigger of his gun twitching.

"Isn't it?" She could hear herself getting flustered, anger making her face hot. "What do I know that's so important that a broken HYDRA can afford to send this kind of force to hunt me down?"

"It's not what you know." Another agent came into the restaurant, picking his way through the broken glass to join Will. A gun trained on her, though just from looking at the man who held it she could tell his skills weren't up to par, his mind not quite suited to field work. Out of the corner of her eye, Imogen saw Clint's hand slowly moving towards his belt, unnoticed by their enemies, who had their attention trained solely on her.

"You think I took something then? Or saboutaged something?" She laughed. "Or are you not here for me at all?"

"Oh, we're here for both of you," Will affirmed.

"_Why_? I mean, I get why you'd want Clint, but you make it sound like you came here for me."

"She doesn't know," the second agent observed quietly, pushing his glasses up his nose with his free hand.

"No," her brother confirmed. "She doesn't."

"Doesn't know?" Her eyes flicked from one to the other, a deep scowl lining her face. "Doesn't know what?"

"We came here for Item 548," Will said.

"I have no idea what that is," she spat. "Or why you think I'd have it."

The two HYDRA agents shared a look. "548," the one with glasses said finally. "It's you."

Something hard and heavy hit Will in the side of the head, sending him spinning, his gun dropping. Clint sprang forward to disarm him, leaving her with the second one.

Their eyes met, both frozen in surprise. His hands were shaking. She knew how that felt. For a second, she didn't move, still working through what he had said; then her training kicked in, screaming at her to duck for cover (not that she actually _had _any cover, out here in the middle of the street), just before he pulled the trigger. A bullet whizzed over her head as she dropped to the ground, scrambling for the bow that she'd dropped just a few minutes earlier.

Two large steps took her within striking range of the man, who was still fumbling with the gun. Face grim, she didn't hesitate to deliver a swift roundhouse blow to his head with the bow, catching him with full force just behind the ear. He dropped like a stone. Will and Clint were engaged in an all-out fist fight, as she'd expected. She took a moment to kick away the weapons that the two HYDRA agents had dropped, pulling out her own gun.

The man who'd collapsed at her strike stirred again, and she put a bullet in his leg – painful and debilitating, but not life-threatening. "You done?" said Clint behind her and she turned. Will was on the ground, gasping for breath and only semi-conscious. She met his eye for a second, and abruptly turned again. Clint looked about as she'd expected, with a split lip and a black eye, and bruises starting to form on his arm and cheekbone. "I was finished five minutes ago," she snapped back.

Shadows loomed around the corner of the hotel and lights flicked on upstairs. "We need to go," Clint said unnecessarily. His hand found her wrist as he passed, pulling her along, and then they were running around a corner of their own and into the night.


	11. Destination

**A/N: Thankyou for all your lovely reviews! It's great to know there are still people reading and enjoying - follows/favs are awesome and everything but nothing makes a writer smile like a review :D **

**Never hesitate to leave me a little note if you feel like it. It doesn't even have to say anything particularly important xD**

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* * *

**11: Destination**

It's you.

She was Item 548. Whatever that meant, apart from being a possession of HYDRA and one that that wanted back.

Something to do with her parents, from the things she'd read on Will's laptop all those days ago. Something that had brought every important person she'd ever had to her life, and then ripped them away again. All except Will, from whom she'd ripped herself, once she'd had enough. And all except Clint. If he counted as important, which, she grudgingly admitted, he just might.

Imogen looked at him now, slouched in his seat as he drove past a pale sunset, his eye slowly swelling up. There was still blood on his lip from where he'd cut it, dried now, and light bruising on the cheek turned away from her. His dark blonde hair was more ruffled than usual, sticking out in all directions. She suspected he had bruising somewhere on his midriff too – every movement he made was stiff and uncomfortable, though he was unusually quiet about it and not stopping.

This was all her fault, it dawned on her slowly. Even though she'd denied it in the hotel, this was _her fault_. If she'd just kept to herself, just found it in herself to ignore her brother's taunts, or just thrown the stupid phone out of the window, then Clint wouldn't be blackened and bloodied, or staring at the road in stony, wearied silence.

Throwing it out the window. The idea wasn't unappealing. The bag was at her feet, as was everything else, and the phone was tucked in an outer pocket, mercifully silent now that it had run out of battery. She stopped, looked at it for a moment – she'd saved for months to buy one of these things – then caught Clint's questioning eyes and berated herself. It was a stupid thing to get sentimental about, especially when she could buy a thousand others that were exactly the same, minus her brother's influence. Was he still ringing, she wondered idly, or did he know that she would not answer, would never answer again so long as it was him that was calling. She would never know the answer (so of course it itched at her even more, as all unanswered questions did).

The window wound down at the press of a button, letting a freezing wind inside to snatch any warmth from the heaters and carry it away, snapping blonde curls across her face as it went. She shoved them out of her eyes, shivering in the cold wind, and flung the phone out without a second thought. She didn't see it land, didn't see it bounce and shatter and roll away into the bushes. She didn't even see it fly – one moment it was there, the next it was gone. Clint wound up the window.

The radio wasn't playing, so she cleared her throat to grab his attention instead, already feeling thoroughly uncomfortable with the situation. "Clint…" she began, trailing off.

"You didn't have to do that," he said, speaking for the first time since stealing the car.

"I wanted to,' she replied. "Sorry…about, well, everything."

"It's okay. I get it." He shrugged. "It's hard to give up family."

For the first time since meeting him, Imogen wondered what kind of family Clint had. Just from his voice, the way his fingers tightened on the steering wheel, she could tell that he had some, but didn't want to talk about it any further. She decided not to press.

* * *

The day passed.

At some point in the afternoon, Clint turned away from the cities and into the wide, rolling hills of the countryside. She didn't ask, just stared out the window as hour after hour rolled away with the hills.

In the golden light of the day's sunset, they finally arrived.

Clint, as it turned out, had been heading for his personal bolt hole the whole time – she'd just been caught up in his flight. Turned out he owned a big old ranch house in the middle of nowhere (well, not the _middle_ of nowhere, he corrected her later; apparently it was only twenty minutes further to actual civilization), complete with barns and stock yards just metres from the house. Cattle grazed peacefully out the other side, and she even spotted a horse or two out along the road as they approached.

Their conversation from the pool the other night came to mind. "You really _are _a farmer," she said, eyes on the window, drinking it all in.

"Don't sound so surprised," Clint said, looking offended. "I'm great at farming." He pulled up in front of the house and killed the engine. Almost immediately, a brown dog came streaking out from under the house, jumping up to look through the window at him with a lolling grin on its face. A smile breaking out over his otherwise grim face, Clint shoved the door open and climbed out, crouching down to wrap his arms around the dog. "Hey Lucky."

Rolling her eyes, Imogen climbed out as well, bundling bows and arrows and bags in her arms (because there was obviously no way Clint was going to bring it all in while that dog was around to distract him). She dumped it all on the top step of the house, sitting herself down next to it and resting her chin in her hands, watching the archer and his dog. A moment later, the screen door behind her slammed, making her jump and turn – only to come face to face with two bare feet and the bottom of a pair of black sweats. Looking up, she found herself staring straight into the eyes of a fierce redhead – boldly, she did not turn her eyes away. Her instinct told her she would regret it later.

"Who are you?" the woman asked, looming over her.

"Imogen Haylock," she said, in a tone that was as pleasant as it was sarcastic. "Who are _you_?"

"None of your business," came the clipped reply. "What are you doing here?"

"No idea," Imogen sighed, pointing to Clint. "That idiot kidnapped me."

"Did he force you to wear that shirt as well?" The question was meant to be sarcastic. She had to nod.

"Nat!" Clint came striding up to them, the dog bounding ahead of him to sniff at Imogen. Giving up on the redhead, she turned to face Clint instead, reaching out to pet the dog – Lucky, he'd called it – as she did. The other woman was quick to descend the few porch steps to meet him, promptly smacking him upside the head. "Ow," he complained, backpedalling and rubbing his head. "What was that for?"

"For _disappearing_, you idiot," she just about growled. "Where the hell have you been?"

"…busy?" he tried hopefully. She didn't buy it. His whole body sagged in a quick defeat. "Fine. I wasn't busy."

"Just one phone call would have been enough, Clint…"

"Hey, I could say the same thing. I was undercover. In _Poland_. Do you know how hard it is to get from _Poland _to _America_ without being spotted by HYDRA or one of the millions of people who saw your face online?"

"Why didn't you just stay in Poland?" Imogen asked, interrupting his building rant before it could reach it's peak.

"And _then_, just when I think I'm off the grid, they send this snarky little kid to kill me."

"She's HYDRA?" The redhead's eyes narrowed as she glanced sharply at Imogen. Clint's gaze followed soon after; suddenly, with these two people staring at her, she felt very exposed. Sensing it, the dog pressed in against her side, licking her cheek with a rough, wet tongue. Making a noise of disgust, he pushed him away before he could further cover her in slobber. He didn't seem fazed. It only had one eye, she saw now; she'd ask Clint about that later, maybe.

"Not anymore," the archer said finally, with a decisive nod.

"Alright then." She didn't sound convinced. Still, her eyes turned away from Imogen, focusing back in on Clint. "What happened to you?"

"We ran into HYDRA earlier this morning," Imogen interjected when Clint hesitated. The redhead smacked him again; gentler though, her cold features slowly melting. "So who are you?"

"Imogen," Clint sighed, before composing himself again. "This is Natasha Romanoff, otherwise known as the Black Widow."

"Oh," was all she could manage in reply. The dog licked her again.

"Anyway. Got any coffee?" he asked Natasha, stifling a yawn as he did.

"It's your house Barton," she reminded him.

"Oh." He thought about it a minute. "Did you drink all my coffee?"

"No."

Rolling her eyes, Imogen left them to it, wandering into the house with the dog hot on her heels, wheedling his way through the door just before it closed. She found the kitchen almost immediately and set a battered old kettle to boil, searching out what was left of Clint's coffee supply and setting it on the counter too. She pulled herself up to sit on the bench then, Lucky dropping to the floor right under her feet. Golden sunlight burst through the window to set the room on fire, turning the few loose strands of hair in front of her eyes into liquid gold. Outside, gentle green hills rose into the sunset in a view some people would kill for. She leant back, and let a smile creep onto her face. They had been right to come here. This was a good place.

* * *

"Hey, Imogen!"

She looked up, blinking against the full force of the freshly risen sun to see Clint beckoning from the barn, motioning for her to come to him. With a sigh, she put down the book she'd been reading and wandered over. As she approached, she noticed the bow in his hand and a quiver half-filled with arrows at his side. "You better not have called me over here to be a moving target or something," she said dryly.

"Now why would I do that?" Clint replied with a grin, leading her around the side of the barn, where she discovered a makeshift shooting range made of large roll bales of hay, set at various distances, and a few crude lines in the dirt. A small cluster of arrows sat in the very centre of each roll, evidence of Clint's flawless shooting.

Before she could say anything snappy, he held the bow out to her. She glanced between him and the weapon, confused. "What are you doing?" she asked.

"Well, you keep taking my bow," he said. "Thought I should at least teach you how to use it."

"Oh." Slowly, she reached out and took it from him; as always, it was a comfortable weight in her hand, even if she had no idea how to utilise it the way it was designed for. "So you're a farmer _and _an archery teacher? It's like all your dreams are coming true."

"Hey, at least I know what I want to do with my life." He handed her an arrow, nodding his approval as she easily nocked it. "You didn't even have a decent answer."

At a motion from Clint, she lifted the bow and drew back, earning a frown from her instructor. "What?" she asked, slowly releasing the tension in the bow.

"Use your shoulders to draw back," he said, miming pulling back a bowstring. "You won't get anywhere near a full draw just using your arms. He chuckled. "Never get full draw anyway with that bow; you're nowhere near strong enough."

She made a noise of protest as she drew again, trying to use her shoulders as he'd said, and getting further as a result. She glanced at him, expecting the smug grin most people she knew would have worn at that, but he was stoic, with nothing but a quiet nod as he assessed her position.

For a moment, he buzzed around her, correcting the way she stood and the way she was handling the weapon. When he was happy with what he saw, he pointed to the nearest bale. "That one," he instructed. "As close to the centre as you can get."

She adjusted her aim, and let the bowstring slip from her fingers. The arrow shot straight past the hay. "Again," Clint said immediately, handing her another arrow and repeating the process. It fell harmlessly in the dirt just like the first one, well away from any kind of target. So did the next four.

She dropped her bow hand, shoving the other one in her pocket. "This is stupid," she muttered unhappily, kicking at a tuft of grass and eyeing his perfect spreads. "I suck at this."

He fixed her with a steely glare. "Are you quitting on me?"

"Never said I wanted to do this in the first place," she bit back.

"Didn't think you were a quitter," he mused, ignoring her. "Took you for a fighter. Maybe I was wrong."

"Teach me to fight then. I'm useless at archery."

"Don't be dumb Imogen. You know how to fight. Eventually you'll know how to shoot." A hint of mischief flickered to life in his eyes. "Even if you're only ever average." He held out another arrow and, sullenly, she took it. The shot she took was angry and poorly set up – and so, of course, it went skidding into the dirt just like all the others.

Clint was unimpressed. "Well if you're going to shoot like that from now on then yeah, I give up," he said. At the unimpressed look on her face, he sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Look, just calm down. It'll take some practice, yeah, but you'll get there eventually."

She stared at him for a moment, and then reached over and plucked an arrow from the quiver by his side, nocking and drawing with slow, smooth movements that weren't quite learned yet. A deep breath passed through her, her first finger reaching out to touch the corner of her mouth as she turned the arrowhead towards the bullseye. When she was good and ready, the string slipped from her fingers, the arrow jumping from the bow, and she stood frozen to watch its flight.

It buried itself in the hay, nowhere near the centre, but still a hit. She looked at Clint, grinning suddenly, and he smiled back, nodding. He held out his quiver. She took it. "Keep practicing," he told her, before wandering away.

She drew another arrow.


	12. Man's Best Friend

**A/N: This chapter is terrible, I'm so sorry. I know where I want to be in about four chapters time, but no idea what's happening in between, so the next few...I have no idea what's going to happen. We'll see, I guess xD Thanks to all the reviewers, especially Singer Of Water, who not only left me a review on every chapter in the last few days, but is also nice enough to rp with me (her tumblr is winter-is-ending and it's awesome, especially if you're a Winter Soldier fan like me :D).**

**Enjoy, and remember to leave a review? If you don't know what to say, perhaps tell me what you think will happen next (or if you have no idea at all; it's also fun to know I've left you all hanging xP)**

* * *

**12: Man's Best Friend**

She stood and shot for hours, until her shoulders started burning with ever pull on the bowstring, not used to this kind of exercise. It was well into the afternoon when she finally collected Clint's arrows for the last time and returned to the house, leaving the bow and quiver by the door. Natasha was in the living room, curled up in an armchair with a book in her lap. Imogen passed her by, heading straight for the fridge in search of food. Clint had precious little at the moment – apparently he hadn't been here in a while, and Natasha had only brought field essentials with her – non-perishables, mainly, all bland and tasteless.

Where was Clint anyway? He'd taught her how to shoot and then promptly disappeared. Maybe he knew that he had no food and was avoiding anyone who noticed, she thought as she closed the fridge. Or maybe Natasha knew, if she dared to ask the red-head. She'd been avoiding contact with the other woman since their introduction yesterday, knowing that Natasha didn't trust her; which was fair enough considering the circumstances.

_Come on,_ she chided herself. _She can't be that scary._ How she face off against HYDRA, yet not even ask this new woman one question? Oh, right. Because she was Agent Romanoff, the famed Black Widow. Except that was still a stupid excuse because she'd agreed to kill Hawkeye without a second thought, and he was just as dangerous as the Widow (no matter how goofy he was the rest of the time).

Sighing, she tugged at the hem of her disgusting Hawkeye shirt, trying to make it fit more comfortably (she didn't like things touching her neck, like the shirt currently was). Why had she gotten tangled up in superheroes and deadly assassins? She was way out of her depth, much as she acted like she wasn't – technically, she was and unemployed criminal with no particular skillset other than an aptitude for starting things she couldn't finish. Certainly someone who wasn't Avengers caliber.

Lucky came padding into the room and sat, looking up at her with one intelligent brown eye. "Do _you_ know where Clint is? She asked him. His head tilted to one side. "Yeah, didn't think so," she muttered, giving a pat as she walked past.

"Natasha?" she asked tentatively at the living room door, leaning on the frame. The redhead looked up sharply, b. "Know where Clint is?"

"He drove off about an hour ago," Natasha replied. "Why?"

"There's no food in his fridge." She shrugged.

"There's never any food at his place. He eats it all as soon as he gets it."

Imogen found herself _smiling _at the Widow. "Any idea where he went?"

"Town, probably."

"Oh." At a lack of anything to say, she pushed off the door frame and went back outside, the dog following her out. There was an old tennis ball lying abandoned next to a hand-crafted wooden rocking chair on the porch, thread-bare and grimy, and at Lucky's longing whine, she picked it up with two fingers and threw it as far as she could, slumping down on the front steps. With a happy bark, he sped off across the yard, pursuing his disgusting toy. A few seconds later he was back again, dropping it right in her lap and looking at her expectantly with a lolling grin.

"Ew," she said, throwing it again. Her whole hand felt like it was covered in dog slobber already. It was this kind of thing that made her reluctant to go anywhere near farms and animals. Slobber was disgusting.

On the fourth or fifth throw, she was caught off guard as two more dogs came dashing out from the direction of the barns to join the game, trying to outrun Lucky as he made a dash for the ball. The one-eyed dog got there first, and trotted back to her with his head held high, the other two trailing along behind.

As Lucky dropped the ball (at her feet this time mercifully), a black kelpie bounded up the taps and straight into her lap. She was too big to fit into anyone's lap but tried her hardest anyway, front end splayed across her Imogen's knees as she panted happily. "How many dogs does Barton have?" she asked the kelpie, scratching its head and leaning around it to reach the ball. The bog barked loudly in reply and then leapt off her again, bounding back down the stairs. She threw the ball again, and Lucky and the kelpie zoomed away, competing fiercely for the honour of returning it to her.

Only one dog remained, hunched warily at the bottom of the stairs. It was black and white, distinctly reminding her of a border collie, and not very old, still small and fluffy, though also scared out of its wits, cowering at the bottom of the stairs.

Not really feeling like risking a dog bite, she left it alone, taking the ball from the kelpie and tossing it in a different direction, watching the dogs scramble to retrieve it with a vindictive grin.

The growl of a car engine brought her eyes to the driveway, easily spotting the car she and Clint had stolen a few days ago (she still kind of missed their original car, she realised suddenly). The dogs were back then, but she let the ball roll away across the porch and watched Clint approach. The kelpie, still full of energy, raced past her and after it – Lucky dropped to the step below her feet, watching the puppy at the bottom of the stairs.

"Help me out?" Clint asked as he got out of the car, reaching into the back seat. She traipsed over to the car, taking a couple of shopping bags and following him into the house. The pup, she noticed, skittered away as they climbed the stairs, only creeping back as Clint struggled to open the front door. Eventually, Natasha put him out of his misery, and then all three were in the kitchen, sorting through groceries.

"You have a lot of dogs," Imogen commented as she stacked various items in the fridge.

"Only three," he replied, looking disgruntled. "Three's not many."

"Three?" Natasha put in. "You didn't get _another _one did you?"

Clint froze. "'s just a puppy," he argued. "Guy was going to drown it."

Natasha muttered something about dogs, but continued unpacking. Clint relaxed, like he'd just gotten out of some kind of punishment. "You saw the collie?" he asked.

Imogen nodded. "Didn't come any closer than the stairs though," she said, snagging a bag of chips and retreating to the other side of the kitchen.

"Doesn't usually even get that close."

"Are they all rescue dogs?"

Clint nodded. "Lucky was beaten up by some tracksuit guys and hit by a car. Found Blackie at an animal shelter, going crazy because there wasn't enough room for her to run around. And my neighbour brought me the pup after taking it from _his _neighbour, who wanted to drown it." He glanced at her. "Stop eating that. We're having pizza."

Rolling her eyes, she put down the chips and pulled herself up onto the bench. "I haven't had anything to eat all day."

"It's only three o'clock." He threw back.

"Why do you want to have pizza in the middle of the day anyway?"

"Because." He looked at her like he was trying to figure out if she was stupid or not. "Pizza."" She gave up.

"I put some cloths in the bathroom for you," Natasha said after a moment, her eyes on Imogen's disgusting (and ridiculous) shirt. "Figured Clint wouldn't have bothered getting anything more than what you're wearing."

"He didn't," she affirmed over his offended 'hey!', slipping off the bench. Looking down at the shirt, she realised just how disgusting it really was (at this point, she'd just gotten used to it, not that she'd ever been bothered by how she looked anyway). Leaving them to it, she wandered down the hall and locked herself in the bathroom. As promised, there were clothes – all black, and all plain, except for the SHIELD logo on the shirt.

One quick shower later, and she stood dressed in clothes that were perhaps a little too big for her, but clean enough that she didn't care. Nat was waiting for her on the other side of the door. "Want me to get rid of that?" she asked, looking pointedly at the Hawkeye shirt.

Imogen thought about it for a moment, and then shook her head. "It's not that bad. Though I don't know if I'll be wearing it in public again."

"I wouldn't blame you."

Grinning, she left the clothes in the bathroom and followed Natasha back to the kitchen, where Clint and Lucky were peering into the oven, watching two frozen pizzas cooking. Imogen picked up one of the boxes that had been left on the bench. "Did you get anything other than meatlovers?" she asked.

He looked up from the oven. "Meatlovers is good," he told her, before returning to his pizza watch. Lucky woofed his agreement, tail sweeping the floor happily. "Good Pizza Dog."

"Even the dog's against me?" Imogen sighed.

"Lucky's against everyone," Natasha said. "Don't take it personally."

"Stupid dog," Clint mumbled, patting Lucky.

* * *

"That can't be good for him," Imogen said forty minutes later, watching Clint feed Lucky his fourth piece of pizza.

"It's pizza," the archer replied. "How could it be bad?"

"Do all your dogs eat pizza?"

"He tries to give them all pizza," Natasha said. "Most of them don't like it though."

"They all like pizza," he argued. Natasha just smiled and reached for another slice.

* * *

"What are we doing out here?" Imogen asked as she followed Clint out to one of the back barns, blind except for the light of a weak torch in the dark, moonless night.

"Going to find the dogs," he grunted in reply, pushing open the barn door and switching on the lights, flooding the building with light. Immediately, Blackie was upon them, jumping all over the place. The pup, who it seemed was always near her, was hiding behind the open door of a stall more suited for a horse than a dog.

There were three stalls actually, all empty but recently used, presumably by the horses she'd seen grazing nearby every now and then. Hay was stacked in one corner, spilling out everywhere, and opposite it was some kind of workshop (she hadn't taken Barton for someone who liked to tinker, but perhaps she'd been wrong). The other end of the barn was a mess of assorted dog beds and kennels. She spotted at least two cats curled up on the bedding, apparently unbothered by the kelpie who was still bounding around all over the place.

"For a SHIELD agent, you sure have a lot of animals," she commented dryly, looking around.

Clint shrugged, opening up a bag of dog food. "I've had a lot of free time lately. And some great neighbours."

"Still. Not many agents have this kind of life."

"Not many agents are good enough at their jobs to take holidays. Some don't even _like _holidays." His hand slipped and biscuits scattered everywhere. "Aw, biscuits," he mumbled, scooping up even more. Blackie was there immediately to clean up his mess, chasing biscuits across the barn floor.

The pup peeked out from his hiding place at the sound of Clint pouring food into a bowl, though still he didn't approach. "What are you going to do about that one?" she asked, gesturing at the collie.

Clint glanced between her and the dog, then handed her the bowl. "Seems to like you," he said. "Go on." With trepidation, she took the bowl and inched closer to the pup, stopping when he retreated further into the stall. The bowl in front of her, she sat down on the cold, dusty floor of the barn and waited.

A moment later, a black and white nose appeared around the corner, followed by a set of wide brown eyes. She rolled a few biscuits across the floor to him, tempting him out of his hiding place. Slowly, slowly, he came creeping out to snatch them up, always with one eye trained on her.

Clint sat down next to her and the dog disappeared again. "Smooth," she said sarcastically.

"He'll come back," Clint replied calmly; sure enough, the nose appeared again, and those wary, wary eyes.

"So," he said as she rolled another biscuit across the floor. "You wanna talk about what happened to other night?"

"No," she said firmly, watching the pup sneak out to eat.

"Imogen," he said, in that kind of disapproving, controlling tone she'd heard so many times before. She scowled at the sound of it.

"Don't," she said suddenly, surprising him.

"Don't what?"

"Say my name like that. You sound like Will."

"Sorry." He paused, watching the pup with her. "Were you stubborn to him to?" She punched him in the arm. He just grinned at her, rubbing the spot where she'd hit him. "C'mon kid. What's this Item 548 thing?"

"No idea," she said with a shrug. "Why do you think I asked you about it that one time?"

"Yeah…yeah."

She snapped round to look at him with wide, fierce eyes. "You don't trust me," she said finally. "You think I'm lying?"

"I don't trust many people," he replied, calm and quiet.

She looked down at the bowl of dog food. "You trust Natasha."

"Yes."

"Why?"

He hesitated. "Because she'd saved my life more times than I can count. Because I've saved her."

"You saved me."

"Sort of," he agreed.

A pause. "Will you ever trust me?"

A small smile touched his face. "Maybe."

She nodded, setting the biscuits out in front of them and standing up. There was no sign of the dog now; no reason to be there. "I don't know anything about 548," she said, almost as an afterthought. "It was…something…to do with my parents. With my mum. I don't know anything else." She took a few steps, then stopped again. "It's okay, by the way. That you don't trust me. I wouldn't trust me either."

She walked back to the house, alone.


	13. I Heart Hawkeye

**A/N: I'm not sure how relevant this chapter is to the rest of the story, but I wanted to write it so I did. And it got done in record time. Hopefully you enjoy it too. Otherwise I'll see you in chapter 14 when we get back to the actual plot? xD**

**Enjoyyyyy.**

* * *

**13: I Heart Hawkeye**

Imogen was stiff and sore from the archery when she woke up, not that she'd let it stop her. Dressing quickly, she crept softly down the stairs, her last conversation with Clint fresh in her mind. She could hear him and Natasha talking softly in the front room, too soft for her to hear. The bow and quiver were set out carefully at the bottom of the stairs. She got the message.

Though she'd told herself she wouldn't be mad at Clint for mistrusting her (she was, after all, some HYDRA kid who tried to kill him, even if her intentions from that point onward had been anything but), she felt a guilty kind of relief at not having to face him or Natasha. Lucky followed her as she ghosted down the hall and out the back door, flopping down in the grass when they reached the other side of the barn to watch her shoot.

Her muscles stretched and loosened as she practiced, making each pull more fluid, easier to accomplish, though she knew she was still a long way from Clint's effortless shooting. At least her arrows were (mostly) hitting the hay now.

Just as the thought crossed her mind, her shot flew well clear of the hay and disappeared into the grass. An irritable sigh escaped her, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw the look Lucky gave her. He wasn't impressed.

* * *

"Afternoon kid," Clint said. His smile was strained.

"Not a kid," she mumbled halfheartedly, taking her snack and escaping.

Yeah, she was doing a great job at not being mad at him.

* * *

"Sit," she told Blackie firmly, pointing at the ground. The dog barked happily. Sighing, Imogen flopped down on the stairs and let the kelpie climb all over her, glancing at the ever-present collie. He was slowly creeping closer. No matter how hard she tried though, how long she forced herself to sit still and wait for him, he never came within reach.

While she wasn't paying attention, Blackie reached up and licked her cheek. "Ew," she told the dog, shoving her well away and wiping her cheek with the back of her hand. Blackie barked again. So did the pup.

* * *

An old red pick-up pulled up outside the house, not ten minutes after Nat and Clint left for some reason or other. Man climbed out, idle-aged with a crop of violently orange hair and a cheerful spark in his eye that immediately made her feel weary.

"Hi there," he said, with the friendliest smile she'd ever seen.

"Hi," she replied, climbing out of the rocking chair and down the stairs, Lucky at her heels.

"Heard Brian was back in town," he said, shoving his hands in his pockets.

For a moment, she was confused. Brian? Who was Brian?

_Clint_, she realised a second later; of course, he wasn't that big of an idiot that he would use his real name.

"He's gone into town," she said.

"Oh, right." The man waved it off like it was no problem. "Just wanted to see if it was true. Name's Aaron, by the way. I live down the road; come up here and look after things when no one's home."

He was expecting a name back, of course. She searched hastily for one that wasn't hers. "Ruby," she blurted out suddenly; she'd known a Ruby, back in school what, eight years ago? She'd been the only person in the class willing to have anything to do with Imogen by the end of the year, and the only person Imogen hadn't wanted to punch. They'd almost been friends, until that one day when she'd found herself once again without any parents to speak of and been handed off to Will, never to see Ruby again.

"Nice to meet you," Aaron said. "Are you related to Brian?"

"Yeah." Daughter? No, not daughter; that was believable, but way too weird. Anything but daughter. "I'm his niece. Came to stay for a few weeks." The lies tasted sour as they rolled off her tongue. Lying was becoming increasingly unpleasant, the more she found out how it felt to uncover long-hidden truths. She didn't really want to lie to anyone ever again.

"Well, I'm sure you'll love it out here." He looked at her for a moment, as if judging her. "I've got a son about your age. He's usually the one who comes out and looks after things 'round here."

"That's nice," she said.

He ran his eyes over the farmyard once more. "Might send him over with some firewood later. It's gonna be cold the next few nights. Let your uncle know, will you?"

"Sure." She shrugged. And finally, he climbed back into his truck, lifting a hand in farewell as he drove away.

* * *

"Hi Imogen," Clint said later, leaning out the front door. She gave him a small wave in greeting, but kept her eyes firmly fixed on Lucky. "Anything interesting happening?"

She shrugged. "Your neighbour was here earlier."

Clint frowned. "What did he want?"

"Just to know if you were back in town and stuff. Said his son might be out later with firewood?"

"And what did you tell him?"

For the first time since their conversation began, she looked up and caught his eye. "Told him I'm your nice Ruby, and that you're back in town for a couple weeks."

He nodded. "Good thinking kid." She just shrugged again.

* * *

A whole day passed before the red pick-up appeared again. Clint was nowhere to be seen (again; out shoot, she deduced from the absence of his bow), and Natasha was hidden away somewhere in the house, reluctant to be found. Which left Imogen to answer the loud knock at the door.

"Hi," a young man greeted her, with the same cheerful smile and obnoxious hair as Clint's neighbour (speaking of Clint, there he was now, disappearing back around the barn and leaving her to suffer alone).

"Hello," she said carefully.

"You're Ruby right?" he asked, to which she nodded. "I'm Jack. I live down the road a bit."

"Yeah, I met your dad yesterday."

"Oh – right." He glanced back at his truck. "I've got some firewood for your uncle."

"He's out by the barn," she told him, gesturing.

"Oh, that's alright. I'll just unload it."

"Okay then." He looked like he was about to say something more, then thought better of it and turned to go with one last, easy smile. She'd never been so relieved to close a door.

Five minutes later, she was bored enough to be out on the porch with a cup of coffee in hand, watching him stack firewood and talk to Clint, who had finally decided to put in an appearance. Lucky sat in the grass below the porch, looking up at her with one judgmental eye. "What?" she asked him, rolling her eyes when he didn't move. "Why am I being judged by so many dogs lately?" she said, as much to the dog as herself. "Am I turning into Barton?" What a nightmare.

* * *

"Nice meeting you Ruby!" Jack called as he left, reminding her that she'd lied to him too. Clint sauntered over and plucked her half-finished coffee right out of her hands, drinking deeply and almost spilling half of it down his shirt.

"I think he likes you," the archer joked with a shit-eating grin. She gave him a withering look and went back inside.

* * *

Nock, draw. Arm straight, fingers touching cheek, eyes on target. Take a deep breath. Shoot.

_Bullseye._

She blinked, looked again. Her eyes hadn't been playing tricks on her. The arrow was really there right in the centre of the bale, in that area that Clint had already torn up with perfect shot after perfect shot. Except this was _her_ arrow, _her_ shot, and it was there alone, because none of her other shots had ever made it to their mark, despite her best efforts.

"Nice shot." Natasha's voice behind her made her jump – she hadn't even noticed the spy's approach.

"Thanks," she said, squashing the 'I know' that was her initial response. No one liked a know-it-all. "You'd be used to it though, wouldn't you?"

"Would I?"

Imogen shrugged. "You seem like you spend a lot of time with Clint."

"Yes," Natasha said with a gracious smile.

"He doesn't get anything but bullseye," Imogen said, half to herself, going about collecting arrows.

"You've been pretty cold to him the last few days."

She glanced at the red-head. "Yeah," she admitted, fiddling with an arrow absently. "I, uh…"

"He told me what happened," Natasha said bluntly, filling the silence Imogen left as she trailed off.

"Oh." Shoving the arrow in her quiver, she fished one more out of the grass and then moved to her bullseye, eyeing it one more time before working it out of the hay. "What about it?"

"Barton does trust you, you know."

Imogen paused for a moment. "Could have sworn he told me otherwise," she said, tugging at the arrow again.

"He trusts you more than he should. I tried to tell him that; I didn't think he'd actually listen to me."

The arrow came out of the hay, and Imogen turned to face her again. "So it's really you that doesn't trust me?" she asked casually. Natasha nodded. "You know, if I was still going to kill him, I think I'd have done it by now. And in case he didn't fill you in, I'm apparently just a possession of HYDRA's. I do enjoy being, you know, respected as an actual human being."

"Just don't take it out on Clint," Natasha said. "He's terrible when he sulks." She gave Imogen one last, long look, and then went back to the house.

That evening, Imogen found a note and a messily folded t-shirt on her bed. _Sorry,_ the note read. _(Natasha made me)_. A smile crept onto her face. She dropped the note and unfolded the shirt – white, with a target design in purple on the front and a Hawkeye tag inside the collar. He'd done it again – vaguely, she wondered if Clint really did just find Hawkeye merchandise on his adventures, or if he actively sought it out just to annoy her.

Well, sort of annoy her. She'd never admit it to him, but maybe she liked the shirts a little more than she let on.


	14. War Path

**A/N: Not going to lie, I am pretty damn happy with this chapter, for all the trouble I had writing some parts of it xD Hopefully you'll like it to? Also, quick plug to say that you can find me at .com for rp or asks or to have a chat or just to look at the Hawkeye/Marvel trash that I reblog :D**

**Enjoyyyyy.**

* * *

**14: War Path**

"You need more kindling, don't you?"

Clint looked up from the fireplace at her quiet question, shifting over so that she could crouch down beside him. "No," he said, scrunching up his face. "I just need some decent matches."

"You need something that will actually catch fire," she replied, poking one of the logs he'd tossed in there.

"Oh, you're a fire expert now, are you?" he asked sarcastically.

"No," she snapped back. "Bet I know more than you though."

He stared at her for a minute, then his fireplace, and then slumped down, defeated. "I need more kindling," he admitted with a heavy sigh.

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, I noticed."

"What if we put newspaper in there?" he asked.

She considered it. "Might work," she agreed with a nod. He upped and disappeared, returning a moment later with several sheets of newspaper, which he balled up and poked into the fireplace before taking up his matches once more.

Ten minutes later, he leaned back, admiring the fire now dancing in the fireplace, licking at the heavy logs that were stacked there. From her vantage point on one of the couches, Imogen gave him a short, sarcastic round of applause. "Hey Clint?" she said, once she'd finished. He hummed in reply, turning to look at her. "Can we be friends again?"

He grinned, dropping onto the other side of the couch and giving her a good-natured shove. "Always were kid," he said. "Not my fault you decided not to talk to me for a week."

"Well maybe if people decided to treat me like an adult every now and then, it wouldn't bug me so much when you all think I'm a _child_."

"Hey." He caught her eye, grabbed her chin gently and made her look at him. "It's just a nickname, yeah? I know you're not a kid."

She pulled out of his grip. "You lied to me like I was a little kid," she muttered unhappily. "You couldn't just tell me that Natasha didn't believe me? That she put you up to it? Warned you off trusting me?"

"And what would you have done if I did?" he asked hotly. She had no answer for him, but he had plenty for her. "You'd have run off to confront her or something, because that's the sort of person you are, Imogen."

"You still could have told me, instead of telling me you don't trust me, don't believe me. You'd have gotten the same answers."

"We're spies and assassins, Imogen. We don't trust anyone."

She sighed. "I just thought…as my friend, you'd at least realise that I have no reason to go back to HYDRA and a brother who apparently now thinks I'm nothing but a lost possession of his." A deep scowl slowly etched itself into her face as she leaned back into the couch. "Especially since you were _right next to me_ for that _whole thing_."

Clint stared at her. He was silent for a long time, mulling it over, almost looking as if he was expecting her to continue. She didn't take the chance, just sat quietly and stared at his peeling floral wallpaper.

"Yeah, you're right," he admitted finally.

"I know I'm right," she replied haughtily.

"Well…" He hesitated, like he didn't know quite what to say next. "How about this? I won't lie to you again. Ever. Promise. As long as you promise not to go storming off as soon as I tell you something."

She'd heard that one before, slipping from so many mouths, right before they threw one more thing in her face. _I'd never lie to you,_ they all said. _You know that._ And then they did. Every time. Even Will had promised he was telling the truth, time and time again, when really he was just spinning a web of lies around her whole life, and everything she'd thought was concrete was just a spider's silken blanket.

But this was _Clint_, this was _different._ They'd decided not to kill each other, driven across the country, fought off HYDRA. He'd been the one who first showed her the web, who'd driven her to tear it down and Will with it. If he was different than everyone else, maybe his promises would end differently too.

"Okay," she said slowly, nodding in agreement.

He leant forward and prodded the fire with a short stick. "I'd still really like to know what this Item 548 business is about," he said casually. "Since we're being honest and everything."

"Me too."

"You need intel if you want to learn anything," came a new voice. Natasha met Clint's eye and then ventured into the room, dropping into an armchair.

"There is none," Imogen replied. "Or at least, there wasn't any in the files that were dumped on the internet."

Natasha shrugged. "Not everything can be found in files," she said. "There's usually at least one person who remembers. Give the right person the right persuasion, and you can learn whatever you want."

Clint must have seen something in her eyes, because he suddenly looked alarmed, dropping the stick and standing. "No," he said abruptly, staring her down.

"No what?" Natasha asked innocently.

"You are not going after HYDRA for information."

"Never said I was."

He breathed a deep sigh, and then sat down again. "Good."

"Well, I think it's a great idea," Imogen interjected, leaning forward and looking at Clint. He just shook his head. "Why not?" she asked. "I know this…thing…might not exactly be at the top of your list of priorities, but it sounds pretty important to _me_. I'd like to know the truth, if you don't mind."

"We've got a safe place here," Clint replied. "What if they capture you? Or follow you back here and destroy everything?"

"I don't care," she replied, with such force that any doubt she'd been feeling was driven straight from her mind. "I just want to _know._ Don't you know like, Tony Stark and that? You're Avengers, I'm pretty sure you could find _somewhere_ to go."

"Clint's right," Natasha said, cutting her off. "We're better off staying here, waiting it out."

She huffed a sigh and leant back again, turning away from both of them. Her eyes fell on the window, on the darkening world outside, and the car parked below the porch. An idea blossomed in her mind; immediately, she abandoned all argument in favour of the new plan.

Clint eyed her suspiciously for a moment, but eventually shrugged it off and moved on to something else. She sat quietly as he and Nat talked, staring into the fire and planning.

* * *

At midnight, she moved.

Clint didn't even stir as she crept past his room and down the stairs. There was no sound from Natasha either, situated in the room by the back door. She went the other way, to the kitchen, where she knew Clint kept a handful of coins and bank notes on top of the fridge (which turned out to be a substantial amount of money, she realised as she helped herself to his stash).

Slipping out the front door, she shut it quietly behind her and drew her coat closer, shivering in the cold night. She went as quickly as she dared to the car, footsteps muffled by the long grass underfoot, and balled herself into the driver's seat as fast as she could, turning on the heater before the frosty night had the chance to soak through to her bones.

"Thought you'd try something like this."

She jumped at the voice behind her, swore, and then turned to see Natasha sitting in the back seat, one delicate eyebrow raised at her choice of words. "Thought you were sleeping," was what Imogen came up with in reply, turning back around.

There was silence, and then a quiet rustling as Natasha climbed through to the front, sliding into the passenger's seat gracefully and adjusting the heaters. "Where are you going?"

_Nowhere,_ she almost said, and hated herself for it. No more lying, she'd said. If only she could stick to her own ideals. "I'm going to find my brother," she said instead.

"And then what?"

"And then he'll tell me what 548 is."

"Well that sounds like a solid plan," Natasha said dryly.

"I'm working on it."

"Do you even know where he is?"

Imogen paused, sensing a trap. "Not yet," she said slowly. She could feel the redhead's disapproving stare burning through her, and fixed her eyes on the steering wheel instead. "I'm good at finding people," she mumbled, in response to an unanswered question.

"You're going to get yourself killed." The words were cold and emotionless; simple fact, the hard truth. Just as she preferred.

"Maybe," Imogen replied, trying to be just as detached. "Didn't know you cared so much."

"I don't."

"Why are you here then?"

Natasha didn't answer, and slowly Imogen turned to look at her. Red hair fell to hide her down-turned face, dark, looking a lot like blood in the half-light. Red was befitting of a woman such as the Black Widow, she thought, in a horrific kind of way. Was befitting of a certain archer she knew too, though unlike the Widow, he didn't wear it as a marker of who he was and what he'd done, kept far away from it. The Hawk played the fool – the Widow played nothing but danger.

"Have you ever killed someone?"

The question caught Imogen by surprise. "No," she replied after a moment. _Not yet_, she added in her head, because she'd been so very prepared to kill Clint, to kill the guards the night she'd left HYDRA, if she'd had to. Because someday, without a doubt, she would be a killer, whether she liked it or not.

"That's why I'm here."

Imogen frowned, confused. "You're here because I've never killed anyone?"

"I'm here because you're inexperienced."

"Am I?"

"Yes. And for some reason, Barton has decided to hold himself responsible for you. He's been teaching you to shoot, hasn't he?" Imogen nodded. "He doesn't need another death to blame himself for."

"But this has nothing to do with him."

"He'll still hold himself responsible."

A flicker of doubt came to life. She trod on it immediately. This mission she'd appointed herself wouldn't end in death. Will wouldn't kill her, surely not. It would end in the truth, and then she'd come back. She'd barely be gone a day, if everything went right.

"I'm still going," she said decisively.

"I know." At her look, Natasha shrugged. "Clint told me you were stubborn. I know you're not going to be talked out of this."

"So?"

"So I'm coming with you."

Imogen almost refused, immediately opened her mouth to tell Natasha that no, she was not coming; and then thought better of it and closed her mouth again. It could be helpful having someone else. _Would be_ helpful. Even though she'd never seen Natasha fight, she'd heard stories. Knew not to underestimate her. There were few people better to have on your side than Natasha.

"Okay," she said finally, and started the car.

* * *

It was only once they were on the main road that either woman spoke again.

"Any improvements to that plan of yours?" Natasha asked.

The words were innocent enough, but Imogen could hear the sarcasm underneath and responded in kind. "If you've got any better ideas, don't be afraid to speak up."

"I have several ideas," Natasha said.

"I'm listening."

"Well for starters, get well away from the farm," the redhead instructed. "Then, we make _them_ come to _us._"

"How're you going to do that?"

"You know your brother's phone number?" Imogen nodded, and Natasha gave her a wolf's grin, propping her feet up on the dash. "We're going to give him a call."

Several towns onward, in a dim, overcast morning, they stood in front of an old payphone. "You know what to do?" Natasha asked, to which Imogen nodded and picked up the phone. She dropped several coins into its belly and dialled.

It rang.

He almost didn't pick up at all; when he did, on the final ring, she could hear the murmur of numerous conversations in the background. Will had a whole team with him still, it would seem.

"Haylock," he said in way of a greeting, all business. For now.

"Hello Will," Imogen said.

"Imogen." His voice dropped to a flat and emotionless tone. There was a scuffling sound, a muffled question, and then silence.

"Oh, you still know my name," she said dryly. "That's a nice surprise."

"What are you calling me for?" he sighed. "I thought you were off playing with the Hawk."

Her lip curled in distaste. "I want to know what Item 548 is." She glanced at Natasha, who nodded encouragement. "And don't just say it's me, or lie to me like you usually do. No avoiding the question."

He laughed. "Why would I tell you? My advantage is in your ignorance."

"_Tell me._"

There was a beep and a voice in the background. "You're an idiot, Imogen," Will crowed suddenly in her ear.

She took a deep breath. "What makes you say that?"

"We had no idea where you were, you know. Now? We're coming for you. We know exactly where you are."

"Oh, you tracked a payphone. Well done."

"You're too cocky. It'll bring you down." His voice was dripping with venom, hissing down the line like a snake. "We're coming for you. You can run if you like, but you won't be able to run forever. We'll get you soon." The words sent a chill down her spine, just as the line went dead. She put the phone down, and took a step away, staring at it still.

"Did he buy it?" Natasha asked.

"Yeah," Imogen replied. "They're coming."


	15. Learning Curves

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews and follows :D Here's some moreeee.**

* * *

**15: Learning Curves**

Natasha taped her shoulder, and Imogen sat up straighter, turning to look at the redhead. "There," she said, nodding at the payphone. A man stood there, receiver held to his ear but his mouth unmoving, eyes scanning the street. The girls faded back farther around their corner as his sweeping eyes passed their way, out of his line of sight and hidden under the long branches of several trees.

"Just the one?" Imogen asked.

Natasha shook her head. "There'll be at least one sniper somewhere high. Pity our own wouldn't come." She felt a flash of guilt for that, and stored it away for later. "I'd say three to four somewhere on the street too, possibly more. They still think you're with Clint after all."

"Is Will in range yet?"

Natasha pulled out her phone, checking the tracking software that was another part of SHIELD's hacking database. It traced phone calls and radio signals and several other things (Imogen wasn't really sure; she was just a field agent, not one of the hackers that created it) within a limited range, and had been searching for Will's phone since they'd made the call.

"I've got him. And he's close."

"Go?"

"Not yet." Imogen glanced at the Widow, a question in her eyes. "You know what to do?" Natasha asked.

The blonde shook her head, and earned a wry smile from her partner. "I'll just have to teach you then." She drew a hood up over her deep red curls, hiding them from plain sight, and started walking, pulling Imogen along with her. "Rule one; don't give him anything until you've got him pinned. No standing and asking, like you did with the phone call. Get him up against a wall or something, put a knife to his throat, and _demand_."

The image of a sharp silver blade flashed through Imogen's mind, blurred with time but still powerful enough to send a shiver down her spine and set her heart racing. If she thought about it, reached back to that night, she could still feel it pressed against her throat, tearing at her flesh…

"Imogen?"

She found herself rubbing at her neck, running her fingers along the line of raised scar tissue on her collarbone, and forced her hand to drop. The memory faded as she zeroed in on Natasha. "Not to the throat," she said, in a voice that left no room for argument.

Natasha searched her eyes, and then shrugged. "His heart then. Or a gun to his head. Whatever is most effective."

Imogen nodded, and the redhead held out a knife.

She took it.

* * *

Natasha spotted the black van first, two streets on, and dragged Imogen back into the shadow of a building just in time. There were two people outside the van, and once she looked hard enough, Imogen recognised them both. One was Will, who would know her face in a heartbeat if he caught sight of it. The other was the man from the hotel, the one with glasses, who was unsuited for field work. They looked to be arguing, the second one quailing under Will's hard glare. As she watched, he got back into the van, and Will stormed off in the other direction.

"Your brother?" Natasha asked quietly.

"The one that walked off," Imogen affirmed.

"Let's go."

She took two steps and then stopped, turning towards the van thoughtfully. "That one knows too," she said.

"How much?" Natasha replied, drawing even with her.

Imogen shrugged. "Don't know. Maybe not everything, but he definitely knows _something_. He'll be more willing to talk than Will."

"It's your choice."

She only took a moment to consider before turning towards the van. Natasha didn't waste any time catching up to her again, pulling the door open so that Imogen could climb in and knock the man to the ground fast. The redhead herself was there a second later, playing with the bank of computers pressed up against one side of the vehicle.

The man struggled to free himself and rise, almost managing to push her off. She slapped him hard across the cheek, shocking him into submission, and then pulled him up and pinned him back against the wall. The knife, held tight in her right hand, found his ribcage, found the spot where it would slide neatly between the fingers of bone that were meant to protect him, and pierce his heart.

He was smart enough to freeze then, staring at her with wide eyes. She could see his whole body shaking and forgot for a moment that she could not feel his heartbeat, so fast was her own.

"Who are you?" Natasha asked, coming up behind her.

"Murphy," he gasped. "A-Alex Murphy."

"You a technician? For HYDRA?"

"Y-yes."

"You know my brother," Imogen said. His eyes widened. "Has he been telling you nasty things about me?"

Nothing.

Her knife pressed against Murphy's ribs, poking through his shirt to the soft skin below. He gasped, and flattened himself further against the wall. "Better start talking," she warned him. "Or this is going to hurt. A lot."

"What-what do you want to know?" he stammered and stuttered, glasses slipping down his nose.

She glanced at Natasha out of the corner of her eye, saw her nod. "Item 548," she said. "What is it?"

"Y-you are," he replied, face scrunched up in confusion.

"Yeah, you said that already. But what does that _mean_?"

His eyes flicked from one woman to the other, and found no pity in either's eyes. "Your mother," he said finally, dragging the words out. "S-she made it. She was a…a scientist, and, uh…" He took a deep breath to steady himself, glancing down at the knife. "Look, I uh…c-can you just move that knife? I can't – I can't think-"

Imogen glanced at Natasha, who just shrugged, and then slowly moved the knife away from his chest, giving him just a little room to move. He sagged in relief, almost falling; his whole body was visibly shaking, she realised suddenly. "Th-thanks," he said, daring to raise a hand and push his glasses back up his nose.

"Now. Tell me."

"R-right. So uh…she worked on the-the Soldier program, the Asset, maintaining the uh, the cryogen pods and researching memory."

Imogen frowned. "Why would she be researching that? She was never interested in memory."

"They wipe the Soldier's memory after every mission," Natasha spoke up. "She might have just been assigned the research."

Murphy nodded eagerly. "She was the leading scientist in that area. Made a lot of progress for HYDRA."

"Great." Imogen gritted her teeth. "What does any of this have to do with me?"

His eyes flew down to the knife. "Well she-she found a way to store memories, and to fabricate them. And then she tried to leave, so she was killed. But all-all of her research, and some intel she'd stolen, it all disappeared. Eventually, they realised that she left it with you."

"No," Imogen said firmly, pressing the knife to his chest again. "She didn't leave me anything."

"Will's pretty certain she did," he breathed carefully. "The whole of HYDRA is. And even if not…"

"If not?"

He screwed up his face, looking disgusted at the very thought of what he was about to say. "There are rumours that she uh…used you in some of her experiments."

She let the knife slacken a little, disgusted herself. "What the hell?" she muttered to no one in particular. "Anything else?"

"No!" he gasped.

"Knock him out," Natasha said behind her. She did so, moving the knife away from his chest and hitting him solidly in the head. He swayed eyes gazing over, but didn't quite drop, so she hit him again. This time, he dropped like a stone, crumpling to the ground. Imogen watched him for a second, ensuring he was well and truly out of it, and then stepped over him, opening the van.

Three HYDRA agents greeted her with pointed guns. "Oh," she said as Natasha joined her, scanning the faces. No Will. Yet. She had no doubt that he would be close, on his way to catch her.

The three of them were no match for Natasha. At the very sight of her, at least one started shaking, his gun moving wildly off target. With practiced ease, she took the first one down, then pulled Imogen to the ground as the other two fired, bullets whizzing through the space their heads had just occupied. She swept the legs out from underneath the next one, and then leapt with deadly grace at the last one. Imogen was not so graceful, scrambling to find her balance and get away from them as Natasha finished her work.

"Move!" Natasha told her and she did, running down the street towards their car, and away from the tangle of bodies that they'd left. Natasha caught up with her before she reached the end of the street and took charge taking her on a round-about route to avoid the rest of the HYDRA team.

"Get in," the redhead instructed unnecessarily as they reached the car; Imogen already had the door open, was climbing inside-

There was a shot, and then something heavy slammed into her arm, high up by the shoulder. With a gasp, she pitched forward, caught herself on that arm, and fell again as it failed to hold her weight. "Imogen!" Natasha called, more urgently, and somehow her brain kicked into gear, dragging her upright and into the car with her good arm, slamming the door closed just in time for it to catch a second bullet.

As Natasha took off, she turned to see her shooter, and recognised the face immediately. His gun lowered as they drove away, but his eyes, his eyes followed until they were out of sight, and perhaps even longer.

It was Will.

"What happened?" Natasha asked, muck too calmly considering the situation. Imogen was lost for words for a moment, still staring out behind them though her brother was no longer there. White-hot pain was beginning to set into her arm, forcing her to face forward again and inspect the damage. There was a clean bullet hole in her arm, in and out, bleeding slowly and steadily. For a moment, she could only stare at it. He'd shot her. _Will._ She had betrayed and deserted him, maybe given him hell every now and then, and he had put a bullet in her for it.

Natasha wasn't so quiet or shocked when she noticed; rather, she swore in a variety of different languages, and sped up, still continuing her angry muttering. Imogen noticed English and German (the only languages she spoke), but wasn't in the right kind of mind to decipher the rest. Anyway, she had a feeling she didn't really want to know.

* * *

On a dusty back road in the middle of nowhere, Natasha stopped and pulled out a first aid kit, bandaging her arm tight and giving her a makeshift sling as a final touch. "Don't bleed out," she instructed with a voice of steel, before driving hell-for-leather back to the farm.

* * *

Imogen hissed as the needle passed through her skin one last time and pulled the stitch tight. Natasha took no notice of her discomfort. Clint continued to make coffee.

"They didn't catch me?" she offered to him, though it didn't at all appease the feeling deep in her gut that something was very wrong.

He left the room.

She looked to Natasha helplessly. "He'll come around," the redhead said. "Sometimes he forgets he can't keep people from themselves."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Imogen asked, indignant.

Natasha helped her arm back into the sling, and then looked her straight in the eye. "Don't go running off again," she answered.

"Wasn't planning to."

"Good." The spy busied herself putting away her medical supplies. "The bullet won't be for your arm next time."

Imogen already knew it. She'd seen it in Will's face. There was only so much trouble he would go to, to take back whatever information he thought she had, and every day, his anger and hatred festered like an infected wound.

His next bullet would be for her heart, or her head.


	16. The Fix-It Man

**16: The Fix-It Man**

If nothing else, she was determined. Clint would give her that. Now that he thought about it, he should probably give her 'stubborn', 'short' and 'easily underestimated' as well, but none of those things mattered at that very moment, so he discarded them and continued hammering nails into fence rails instead.

He was good at hammering nails in, better than you'd expect from someone as comedically disastrous as himself. Everything else he did (except his impeccable shooting, of course), was prone to end in a situation straight out of a cartoon, and liable to have people laughing or shaking their heads or turning away, but never would he have a throbbing thumb or band aids on every finger from one too many unfortunate accidents.

Determined, right. Imogen arrived just as he drove the nail home. She'd ditched the sling, he noticed, and somehow made her way over two fences and across a paddock to find him, well out of sight of the house. He was suitably impressed, even if she was the last person he wanted to see right then. He'd planned to talk to her in a few hours, when he'd finally exhausted his list of odd jobs and returned to the house to collapse.

"What are you doing?" she asked, in a voice that was milder than any he had ever herd come out of her mouth before.

"Fixing fences," he replied shortly, reaching for another nail.

"Oh," Imogen said, picking at the bandage that was visible on her upper arm. She'd worn the 'I Heart Hawkeye' shirt, fresh and clean for the first time in its short life with her. "Why are you fixing fences?"

At the strength that was returning to her voice, he raised his eyes, pausing in his painstaking placement of the nail. "I like fixing stuff around her. Keeps me busy. Gives me time to think. Or not think."

"You must have a lot of broken fences," she said dryly.

This time he _did_ smile, just a bit. "It's not always fences. I started out with the barn. And the house."

He started hammering. She fell silent until the nail was in.

"Do you think…I could fix something?"

He snorted. "Not with your arm like that. Trust me, I've tried."

She shrugged. "You seem to have it all under control anyway." Her eyes were on the hammer, he realised, swinging it experimentally. "You ever asked Thor to help you fix your fences?"

"No," he replied thoughtfully. "Maybe I should."

"He'd probably be better at it than you."

"I'm better at archery than he is."

"Wonder what it'd be like to use a weapon like that."

"Maybe you should ask him."

Imogen shot him a withering look. "Why don't you? You and Thor would be best friends, wouldn't you? Being Avengers and all."

Clint couldn't tell if she was joking or not. "I know him," he said with a shrug. "Wouldn't say we're _best friends._ Hardly even a team, really."

"The Avengers don't get along? I'm _shocked_."

"You don't look shocked." She punched him in the arm. "Alright, alright," he grumbled under his breath. She grinned, but fell silent, gazing out at the endless green of the hills around them. The sun was just setting, throwing golden light and weird shadows across the land and painting the sky with every colour imaginable. It was oddly peaceful, after the events of the past few days. The fight, the feeling of a bullet slamming into her arm, had been playing over and over in her mind since they'd gotten back, but she was no closer to understanding it than she had been as it all happened.

"You don't look like an Avenger, you know," she continued, pushing everything else from her mind.

"I know," Clint replied. "I wasn't even supposed to be an Avenger at first. Neither was Nat."

"So, what, they just let you on the team at the last minute?"

He shook his head. "We all took matters into our own hands after the helicarrier almost went down. Cap and Nat needed me to fly a quinjet, and I kind of just stuck around and helped out." He shrugged, like saving the world was no big deal.

Imogen frowned. "You make it sound like you're not an Avenger," she said carefully.

"I'm just a guy with a bow," he replied. "Not a god or a genius or a super soldier. I can't even keep one stubborn kid safe." He laughed, but it was raw and emotionless.

She punched him, harder than before, putting all her strength behind it, angry. He pulled away before she could hit him again, rubbing at his arm. "You're a superhero," she told him, more aggressively than she'd meant to. "They don't make shirts about 'guys with bows' who 'just help out'. And this?" She pointed to her arm. "This has nothing to do with you. I left, and I didn't tell you, and I got shot because I wanted information. _Nothing to do with you_. And yeah," she continued after a breath, cutting him off before he could say anything. "Maybe Captain America or whoever would have stopped me from even going, instead of letting me sneak out, but I'm not friends with Captain America, and if that's his idea of protection, I don't _want_ to be. I'd much rather stick with Hawkeye and the bullet hole in my arm, thanks."

He was staring at her, and suddenly she realised just how much she'd said, and just how much he _wasn't_ saying in return. "I'm sorry, by the way," she spat out, much milder now that her anger had dissipated. "For leaving. And getting shot. And making you worry. But I don't regret it."

Before she could pull away or avoid it, he stepped forward and gathered her into his arms, enveloping her in a warm hug. She fit easily into his chest, being much smaller than him, and his arms trapped her against him, holding her tight. For a moment, she was frozen, almost _fearful_ – then, slowly, her one good arm wrapped around his waist in response, returning the affection.

"Are we good?" he asked.

"Yeah," she replied quietly, voice muffled by his shirt. He smelled like sweat and dirt and Lucky, but she buried her face in it anyway, breathing deeply – it was more like home than any SHIELD base she'd ever lived in.

"What did you find out?" he asked her finally, as he let her go.

"Plenty," she sighed. "Apparently, all this 548 stuff is about my mum's research. She was working on cryogenics and memory when she died, and HYDRA think she left all of it with me. Plus, she uh…" Imogen shifted from one foot to the other, uncomfortable. "She used me as a lab rat for something. Don't know what."

Clint swept over the last part, to her relief. "Any idea where that research is?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I don't have anything of my parents'. It was all taken by the woman who adopted us."

"Maybe she has it then," he suggested.

"She's dead," Imogen said flatly. "Besides, she was HYDRA too. There's no way she would have let it slip through her fingers."

"Do you remember anything?"

"Just them dying."

He didn't say anything more, just gave her a long, indecipherable look, and then led her back to the house with one hand thrown across her shoulders. She knew what the silence meant though. It was time to start remembering.

* * *

She woke.

There was a noise, a quiet scraping that broke the silence of the night. It didn't belong to this house, a place that creaked and cracked and whispered but never scraped. Of all people, she would know. Slowly, her eyes opened and she surveyed the small room, dimly lit by the street light outside. Nothing moved, because the noise hadn't come from in here.

A truck rattled past outside as Imogen sat up and pulled her coat on, startling her. With shaking fingers, she pulled the coat close and slid carefully out of bed so that the mattress didn't make a sound. It was notorious for creaking at the most inopportune moments, but this time, blessedly, it was silent.

There was lego on the floor, and a doll or to, but she avoided it with the practised ease of someone who'd spent many days navigating that particular mess and crept into the dark hallway. Her parents slept peacefully across the hall, not bothered by the noise; she went to check closer anyway, standing in the doorway to their room and watching as her father rolled over in his sleep. He'd been gone for weeks now, and come back with half his face coloured purple and blue and a distinct limp to his stride. The colours were kind of pretty, she thought, except that they didn't belong on his skin.

She went back to her room then, congratulating herself on how quiet she'd been. Neither had even looked like waking the whole time she'd watched them! It wasn't often that she got away with sneaking around after dark.

A hand covered her mouth, effectively cutting off any noise she would have made. As she tried to pull away, a strong arm wrapped around her stomach, pinning her against the broad chest of her attack. She writhed and fought back, tried to bite his hand but to no effect – his hold on her was much too strong for someone that small to break.

There was a voice by her ear then, whispering nonsense as he dragged her from the room. The hall was alive, full of shadows passing back and forth, whispering to each other. Six shadows came struggling out of her parents' room, two of them thrown to the floor. The hallway light flicked on, flooding the house with bright light. She blinked rapidly, her eyes trying desperately to adjust. Something cold and hard found her throat, pressed against it. She recognised the faces of her parents on the people before her, forced to their knees before a small army of black-clad invaders.

Her father looked even wearier than he had when he'd dragged himself through the door a day and a half ago, sagging to the ground more than being forced. There was a spark of determination in her mother's eyes, despite the fear that swirled their too. She would not stand down. Not for anything.

"Where is it?" one of the people around them asked. Kathleen said nothing.

There was a glint of silver at the edge of Imogen's vision, drawing her eyes downward. She could just see the edge of a silver blade at her throat; like the ones used to cut food, the ones she never touched, except that she had a feeling this knife's purpose was a little more sinister. Her heart started pounding in her chest, leaping towards her throat. She swallowed hard and forced it and all the fear it brought with it back down, back to her chest where the knife couldn't get it, told herself to breathe like her dad had taught her once.

"Give us the files!" their leader demanded again. Kathleen spat in her face. "Your children will die," she added, wiping the spittle from her face.

"I only have one child," her mother replied.

The leader laughed. "You have two. We may not know where William is, but rest assured we will find him, and he will suffer if you don't _hand over the files._"

"No."

"I won't ask again."

"Good."

Imogen's frightened eyes searched for her mother's, but the woman was all steel and ice and held nothing of comfort for the girl, still pretending not to care. She turned to her father instead, and his warm brown gaze that was trying to tell her _it was okay, it would all be okay_…

The blade pressed harder against her neck, drawing blood. Someone's hot breath passed by her ear. Unable to stop herself, she let out a strangled, frightened sob. Her father answered with a shout of his own, leaping at the man with the knife. They both fell behind her, the blade carving its own course as they did, down across her collarbone all the way to her shoulder, setting it on fire. Not quite understanding, she reached up to touch the flames. Her fingers came away dripping red.

There was a grunt, and a guttural, choked sound of surprise behind her. "Imogen," her mother called. "Imogen, don't look honey. Don't turn around." Her begging was too late though; she was already turning, just in time to see the knife meant for her buried deep in her father's body two, three, four more times. They dropped him then, and by the time he hit the ground he had already grown limp, eyes staring at her like the glass eyes of some stuffed animal. She shivered, but kept on staring, not sure what else to do, not sure what it meant.

A siren sounded outside, quiet for now but growing louder with every minute that passed. There was a hushed conversation, one she didn't pay any mind to, and then two gun shots and a surprised gasp. Her eyes moved then, to see her mother looking down at her own stomach, one hand trying desperately to cover the rapidly spreading patch of red. The other hand reached for Imogen as she swayed, and the girl went, her head starting to spin and eyes beginning to blur with every step that she took. She crouched by her mother, let the woman touch her face with bloody fingers as the other hand fumbled with something.

"Stay safe," Kathleen whispered to her daughter. Without warning, her fingers pressed against the deep cut on her neck, sending fresh, hot pain shooting through her shoulder and up into her head. The girl swayed, and then flinched away out of reach. "No," her mother said firmly, pulling her back, holding her tight and pressing down again. It was the last of her strength; with that, she couldn't hold herself up anymore.

* * *

Imogen woke with a start. And found she knew what to do.


	17. 548

**A/N: Wooow...so it feels like it's been a while. I was aiming to finish this chapter at least before Age of Ultron, which I saw yesterday, so that didn't happen. Life has been hectic xP Anyway, it's here now, and I can tell you that we are maybe five or six chapters from the end of Sparrow! (yay! Or not yay. I don't know)**

**This chapter is dedicated to the freak storm that cut my riding time down to fifteen minutes this morning and left me stranded at a bus stop for two hours. Wouldn't have finished it without you, storm. Come later in the day next time. It's also dedicated to my lovely reviewers, who are my life and soul in these dark times of trying to finish fic. Couldn't do it without you guys!**

**Anyway, time for me to sleep. Enjoyyyyy.**

* * *

**17: 548**

Her fingers traced the ugly scar from neck to shoulder, trailing softly over skin that had never quite managed to go back to the way it used to be, despite all the years that had passed. They paused about halfway along, pressing down against the line of scar tissue. This was the place where the damage had been worst, they'd told her, where the knife had dug deepest and where the scar was most raised. It was also, she realised now, the spot her mother had touched in her last moments.

It all had to mean something. The scar, her mother, the information HYDRA wanted. She had her suspicions about it all. Now, she just needed confirmation.

It was barely dawn outside, pale first light reaching through the windows of the house to light her way downstairs. Imogen had heard Clint rise just minutes earlier, but the house seemed deserted – as usual, there was no sign of Natasha, who moved like a ghost and would not be found unless she wanted you to. She breathed a little easier without their presence, without anyone to stop her as she pulled a knife from the drawer and sat down at the table, tugging the neck of her tank top out of the way.

She could barely bring herself to raise the knife, so strong was her repulsion to the very thought of it near her neck. No, not repulsion. _Fear._ A fear that had stayed with her throughout her entire life, from the moment a knife was first put to her throat. It was her greatest weakness, her fatal flaw, the one thing her enemies could use against her, if they knew about it.

She'd only ever told one person about it. The one person who was now her enemy. Which meant she'd have to fight it, have to teach herself to push through it. Before she could change her mind, she pressed the tip of the knife to her bare flesh. Flinching away, she took a breath and pulled it close again, ignoring the gut-wrenching fear that shuddered through her at the blade's feather touch, the speeding beat of her heart, the prickling pins-and-needles sensation that erupted from the cold steel. Her skin crawled and her stomach twisted, a shiver running down her spine at the thought of what she was about to do.

The knife almost dropped again. She felt sick, holding it to her own throat. Slowly, softly, she took a deep breath and tried to steady her hands. The last thing she needed was more scars. The barest amount of pressure was enough to draw blood, pain blooming almost immediately. She dug it deeper with a gasp of pain, until she felt the tip press against something hard and unyielding, too close to the skin to be a bone. Breathless, she widened the cut and then dropped the knife, barely hearing it clatter to the floor, or feeling the pain at her neck. It was there! Whatever _it_ was, it was _there, _hiding beneath the scar, all this time.

She didn't hear the door creak open and closed, or the footsteps in the hall, but she did see Clint appear in the doorway, a question dying on his lips as his eyes widened in alarm. He was at her side in seconds, fingers pressing down on the fresh wound at her neck, trying to stop the bleeding.

"What the hell are you doing?!" he asked, glancing around in search of something – the first aid kit, probably.

Imogen tried to push his fingers away, but succeeded only in spreading the blood around a little more. "There's something there," she gasped. "Something in me. Just let me get it out."

He eyed her sceptically. "This isn't a time for paranoia."

"I'm not being paranoid," she snapped almost instantly, surprising him. Clint stared at her for a moment, searching her face for something, and then sighed, releasing the pressure on the wound and reaching for whatever was inside of it. As he did, she grit her teeth at the fresh, stabbing pains rolling through her neck and shoulder, eyes focused on the faded floral wallpaper opposite. He froze, and she knew he'd found it. A few seconds later, he dug it from her flesh and removed it entirely, blood dripping from his fingers.

It was long and thin, glinting silver in the lamp-light. "What is that?" she asked, exhaling slowly.

"Put pressure on that cut," he replied sharply. "It's rude to bleed out in other people's kitchens." She rolled her eyes but did as he instructed, closing the wound as best she could.

Putting the…_thing_ down on the table, he went and washed his hands and then returned with the first aid kit. "Stitches _again_?" she asked in an exasperated voice as he pulled out a needle and thread.

"You made the cut," he reminded her, readying the needle. "Would've needed stitches the first time anyway, right?"

"I was half dead then," she muttered, wincing when he pulled the first stitch through. "And they had really good drugs."

"You'd think _half dead_ would put you off doing something stupid like this."

"Doesn't seem stupid to me."

"Why are you stitching her up again?" Natasha entered the kitchen, eyes flicking between them in search of an explanation. Not intimidated in the slightest, Clint just shrugged and continued stitching. Imogen, seeing something in Natasha's eyes that said she wouldn't suffer through any kind of argument or misinformation, pointed to the silver _thing_ they had found. The redhead didn't hesitate to pick it up and examine it, despite the blood that still clung to it, or dripped down to slowly stain the table.

"YYou cut this out of your neck?" she asked, turning it over.

Imogen went to nod, but thought better of it when Clint hissed at her to keep still. "My mother put it there, I think," she said instead.

"Looks like something Stark would make."

"Nah," Clint interjected. "Not flashy enough for Stark."

"Any idea what it is?"

"Her research," Imogen replied as Clint finished stitching. "That's what they all want from me. I guess it's like a memory card or something."

Natasha hummed in reply, turning it over and over like it might reveal its secrets to her. "You should take it to Tony," she said finally, dropping it back on the table.

"What, all the way to New York?" Clint paused to give Natasha a look, to which she shrugged and his eyes narrowed. "We barely got _here _alive, let alone New York."

"Stop being dramatic. You got here just fine."

"I think we should go to New York," Imogen added.

"Kid, you're in no shape to be going anywhere," Clint told her.

"Not a kid," she told him in return.

"What of someone comes after us? You're gonna fight?"

"Yes," she replied defiantly, looking him straight in the eye. He turned away from her and started packing up the medical supplies, refusing to admit defeat.

Natasha walked over and put a hand on his shoulder, turning him to face her. "Go to New York Clint," she said firmly.

"Nat, I don't like it." He was quieter now, softer, more reasonably. The change was so sudden it caught Imogen off guard for a moment, making her forget the throbbing in her shoulder for a minute as she listened.

"Would you rather Stark came out here?"

Clint looked offended at the very idea. "No."

Natasha nodded. "Exactly."

"This place is so safe though. Why leave?"

"Are you telling me you'd rather sit around in a safe house than help bring down HYDRA?" Clint was silent. "You're an asshole, Barton."

"I know." Finally, he turned back to his task. "So?" Imogen asked.

There was a long silence. Finally, Clint sighed. "We're going to New York," he agreed.

Natasha just smiled.

* * *

"Aren't you coming?" Imogen asked her later, as she threw her belongings into the car.

Natasha shook her head. "I've got some other people to check up on."

"Other people?"

"Steve…Captain America. He's chasing Soviet assassins."

"Sounds like fun." Natasha shrugged, eyes wandering away. Clint slammed the house door and clumped his way down the stairs in heavy boot, pausing to give Lucky ne last pat. "Ready to go?" he asked Imogen, to which she nodded. Abruptly, he drew Natasha into a tight hug, and she gave him a kiss on the cheek, and then they were climbing into the car, aware of the long drive that awaited them.

The farm disappeared behind them in a cloud of dust.

* * *

"Kid, wake up. C'mon Imogen. Get up."

Clint was shaking her shoulder urgently, glancing between her and the road. Confused, Imogen blinked several times and rubbed at her eyes, trying to wake up faster. Outside the car, the world was pitch black, without even a single star, just the headlights of the car to light up the world.

She turned to Clint, illuminated by the blue lights on the dashboard. "What's going on?" she asked groggily, resting her cheek against the set.

"We've got a tail," he said.

Imogen sat up a little straighter. "Will?"

"Probably."

She sighed. "What do you want me to do about it?"

"You've been practising shooting, right?" She nodded. "There's a gun in the glove box. If they get too close, shoot them down."

* * *

As it turned out, she didn't have to shoot them at all. Just outside of New York, they dropped back, and Clint took the opportunity to stop and swap with her. As she drove into the city, he pulled out a phone (unfamiliar; he must have bought it sometime before they left the farm) and tapped away at it for a few minutes.

She glanced in the mirror. "Clint?" she said when she recognised one of the cars behind them.

"Yeah?" he replied, eyes not leaving the screen.

"They're back. He looked up then, glancing behind them and then reaching for the gun on the dash.

"Black vans," he muttered as he checked the weapon. "What is it with secret organisations and black vans?"

Imogen just shrugged and turned onto a mostly empty freeway, heading towards the city centre. The van followed them, and suddenly there were no cars between the two, and the van accelerated, closing in.

"Clint," she said again, tightly, accelerating in turn.

"I know, I know," he replied, winding down the window and firing off a few shots.

He ducked back inside as bullets rained down on them in return. There was a bang and the car skewed to the left. Swearing, Clint reached over and grabbed the wheel, keeping her driving straight. "Keep going!" he shouted as more shots peppered the back of the car. Leaning out again, he emptied the rest of his bullets into the van. It kept coming.

There was another bang, and this time Imogen couldn't do anything as they slipped to the right this time, throwing Clint back into the car, and kept going. Suddenly, the car was turning, rolling over and over again before finally leaning upside down, rocking slight.

Groaning, Imogen fumbled to release her seatbelt and then slumped on the roof of the car, gasping for breath. Beside her, she could hear Clint moving too, pulling himself free of the seat. "Imogen?" he asked.

"I'm okay, she gasped back. Outside, there was the sound of a vehicle pulling up. Through the cracked glass of the window, she could see the wheels of the van, and a moment later, three pairs of boots.

"We need to get out of here," she said. Clint was already kicking at the glass on his window, grunting with the effort it took. He pulled himself out, and then reached back to help her. Before she went, she reached into the back seat and retrieved his bow and arrows, dragging them out with her.

"Good thinking kid," he whispered, taking them from her. As she handed them over, she spotted several cuts on his arms – and some on her own, not to mention the throbbing in her ankle and blood creeping from the cut on her neck, where she'd popped a few stitches.

Clint stood and fired. A gargled scream followed, and several bullets. He shot down again, sheltering behind the car. They were closing in; through the windows of the car, Imogen could see boots slowly treading closer. They'd have to move, have to get to a more defensible location, had to hide the chip somewhere-

"Where's the chip?" she hissed at Clint over the sound of gunfire.

"Under the seat," he replied, trying to fire without leaving cover. Trusting him to keep them busy, she scrambled back into the wreck and reached p under the driver's seat, ignoring the broken glass that pressed into her legs. Finally, her fingers found it, just as rough hands pulled her from the car, not caring it her flesh caught on glass as they did.

Not Clint then. Her mind moved fast as they dragged her 0 she couldn't let them have the chip.

Her sleeve. She'd borrowed a jacket from Natasha, whose clothes had multiple pockets and folds sewn into them to accommodate weapons and suck. There was one in her sleeve, small and thin, but big enough to hold the chip. With one hand, she pushed it into the pocket, and prayed it would not fall out.

Not a moment later, she was pulled to her feet next to Clint, who gave her a look of pure annoyance as two big guys restrained him. She would have laughed, if it weren't for the cold night and the six or so people surrounding them, and the battering her body had taken in the last few minutes. Instead, she scanned the faces, looking for her brother.

He wasn't there.

Where was he then? Surely there were his people, at the very least. No one else would follow them across the country.

A woman swaggered up, tall and striking, with short brown hair and numerous tattoos. She pulled out a gun, help it to Clint's head, and put a finger on the trigger. "Hawkeye," she said, sounding victorious. "Clint Barton. I've caught an Avenger."

"Hello," Clint replied, sounding either bored or fed up.

She glanced at Imogen. "And…what? An accomplice? A _daughter_?"

"No," Imogen spat venomously.

"The woman shrugged and turned away again. "It doesn't matter."

"You'll have no problems letting her go them," Clint said calmly.

The woman smiled coldly. "Maybe. Once you're dead."

"Leave him alone," Imogen said through gritted teeth. The finger on the trigger twitched. A roaring filled their ears.


	18. The New Order

**A/N: I'm endeavoring to get a lot of chapters out in a short space of time now that the end is in sight - so be prepared for lots of updates maybe? :D I'm pretty happy to fiiinally be reaching the end of Sparrow, considering this thing has been in the works for a good two years now. Enjoy!**

* * *

**18: The New Order**

A blur of red and gold passed over their heads, and then came down to land before them; Iron Man, the armour shining in the street lights. The woman was transfixed, her gun falling away from Clint's head as all her attention turned to this new hero – and the repulsor aimed right for her chest.

"Two Avengers," she said, not at all daunted by the armour. "It _is _my lucky day."

"Well you sound crazy already," Stark said.

She laughed. "Not crazy. Just ambitious."

"Right." He stepped closer. "How about we keep this nice and easy; let them go, and I won't shoot you and all of your…henchmen." The armour whirred, loud and threatening.

Their captor looked like fighting for a moment…and then thought better of it and holstered her gun, signalling for her men to do the same. They stepped away reluctantly, rallying to her – Imogen resisted the urge to punch one as they passed.

"I know when I'm outmatched," she said as they retreated. "But I won't be forever. Your day will come, just like Barton and the girl's will." Stark didn't even turn, just let them go.

"Shouldn't we go after them?" Imogen asked, glancing between the two Avengers.

"Do you feel like chasing her down?" Clint asked pointedly. Reluctantly, she shook her head.

"I'm running facial recognition now," Stark interjected. "Trying to find out who they are, what they wanted. In the meantime…" As he trailed off, a car pulled up behind them, sleek and expensive-looking.

Clint glanced over it appreciatively. "Much better than our ride." Looking between it and their wrecked car, Imogen had to agree. She took a step towards it, lurched, and almost crashed into Clint, grabbing his arm to steady herself as her leg gave out underneath her. With a grunt, he took her weight and helped her into the car, sliding in after her. Imogen pulled herself across to the other side of the car, trying not to touch anything once she realised one hand had been cut by the glass and was covered in half-dried blood. Both her hands were shaking, adrenaline fading from her system now that it was all over. She pressed her hands into her knees and looked out the window for the drive into the heart of New York, willing them to stop shaking.

* * *

The communal area of Avenger's Tower was huge, not that Imogen cared about anything except the couch that she collapsed on as soon as she reached it, relieved to finally get off of her sore leg. Clint stood in front of her with arms crossed, eyeing her.

"What?" she asked him grumpily, not in the mood for staring.

"You kook terrible," he told her.

"So do you," she replied, leaning back to stare at the ceiling.

"So, Clint." Tony Stark appeared in the corner of her eye, sans armour. She couldn't find the energy to care enough to lift her head and actually look at him as he headed for the bar and out of her sight. "What brings you out of hiding and back into the real world? And who's the girl?"

"This is Imogen," Clint said with a wave in her direction. "She uh…we've be hanging out. Since SHIELD collapsed and everything."

Imogen pulled the chip out from her sleeve and held it up for Stark to see. "We need your help figuring out what this is..."

He was there in an instant, plucking it from her fingers and examining it, wandering back to the bar. "Looks kind of like a microchip," he commented, mainly to himself. "Any ideas, Jarvis?"

"The device does appear to be used to store some kind of data," a polite British voice said from nowhere in particular. Surprised, Imogen sat up fast, and regretted it a minute later as ever part of her body complained.

"What was that?" she asked, wincing her way through various pains.

"Tony's AI butler," Clint said, eyeing her again.

"His name's Jarvis," Tony added in a distracted voice. "He runs the house and…other stuff…" He was wandering away, drink in one hand and chip in the other. "Be right back," he threw over his shoulder at the last minute, before disappearing.

Imogen slumped back into the couch again, moving carefully this time, easing herself back. "You okay, kid?" Clint asked; she could feel his eyes in her still, judging her.

"I'm fine," she replied with a roll of her eyes. "You?'

He stifled a yawn. "Tired."

"Yeah."

A pause. "Your neck's bleeding again."

She reached up and touched it, feeling fresh blood soaking into her shirt. "So?"

"Dangerous place to be bleeding."

"It's not that bad."

"Still. Jarvis, you got any doctors in this place?"

"I have already alerted Doctor Cho," the polite voice said.

"That is so weird," Imogen sighed. "Like having Siri in your ceiling."

"Don't let Tony hear you say that." She could tell he was smiling from his voice. "He's convinced his tech is miles better than anyone else's."

"That's because it is."

A set of fast-moving footsteps alerted them to a new arrival; a tall Chinese woman in a lab coat, carrying all the medical supplies you could ever wish for. "Hello," she said, with a gracious smile. "I'm Helen Cho. I'm a biologist and medical doctor; I've been working with Mr Stark on a few projects."

"Nice to meet you Helen," Clint said without much enthusiasm.

"Do you mind if I patch you up?" she asked, hovering nearby.

Clint hesitated, and immediately Imogen rolled her head to one side to glare at him, daring him to send to woman over to her first. She had no logical reason to dislike or mistrust Doctor Cho, who was obviously trusted by Stark and whom she had only just met, but she wasn't in the mood for logic, and she never really liked people anyway. Clint sighed when he saw the look on her face.

"I'll go first then," he said, gesturing for the doctor to sit down. Imogen didn't bother watching as she patched him up, just stared at the ceiling and resisted the urge to fall asleep. It was more difficult than she'd thought it would be – apparently, she was exhausted.

Doctor Cho entered her line of sight.

Sighing, she pulled herself up again, not caring if she being rude or unfriendly. "Really?" she said reluctantly, already knowing what was coming.

"You've got a head would, multiple cuts, and a swollen ankle at the very least," Doctor Cho said calmly. "You need medical attention."

"Can't I just sleep it off?"

"If I have to be all bandaged up, so do you," Clint interjected as the doctor shook her head, smiling. Imogen sighed again, but let her near, gritting her teeth through each ministration. Turned out she'd cut her head open, right up by her hairline – there was blood matted in her hair, she realised then with disgust. She'd popped stitched on her neck, bruised and cut up her entire body on impacts and glass, cracked a couple of ribs, and messed up her ankle for a few days. Apparently all she could do for it was ice it and stop walking, neither of which were favourable options in her opinion but by then, she couldn't be bothered arguing her point.

"Here you go." Stark returned, dropping a tablet into Imogen's lap. The screen was displaying a number of files; she picked it up and scrolled through them all quickly, before choosing the very first one.

"There's some interesting stuff on there," the genius, commented, pouring himself another drink. "I'd like to meet whoever designed that chip."

"She's dead," Imogen replied flatly, busy skimming through something about cryogenics – vital signs and brain activity.

"You know who built it?" Stark asked, wandering down to the seating area.

"My mother built it." She exited the file and scrolled through them again, waiting for something to catch her eye.

"Oh. Well that's…unfortunate." She shrugged, kept scrolling. Most of the files looked like either reports or experiments for HYDRA, though some were less formal, more like personal notes than anything else. There were formulas and equations too, attached to the experiments. Different versions of something her mother had been working on, Imogen guessed, though she wasn't one for science and barely understood some of the reports she was reading.

A hand pulled the tablet out of her grip. Clint. She chased after it half-heartedly, until he held it up in the air and reaching it would require standing up. "Give it back," she protested with a light scowl.

He shook his head. "Go and sleep."

"Why?"

"You haven't slept in two days. You've been in a car crash. Reading all of that in one night will turn your brain into mush." He glanced at what was on the screen, and raised an eyebrow at what he was reading. "Reading all of that would turn your brain to mush without sleep deprivation."

"Anything else?"

He shrugged, his face darkening. "Got a feeling this isn't over yet."

Slowly, she stood up, careful to keep the weight off of her bad foot. "What, because that woman almost blew your brains out?"

"She did not."

"She so did."

"Don't sound so smug about it. Where would you be without me?"

_Nowhere_. She elbowed him and grinned.

* * *

It was the sound of engines that woke her, coming from somewhere far below – maybe one or two stories. With a growing sense of dread, she slipped out of bed and pulled on boots and a coat, padding softly down the hall. There were two shiny elevators waiting quietly for someone to need them but she ignored them both, instead pushing through the door that indicated a stairwell and limping slowly downward.

Two floors later, she pushed through a door and found herself in a large aircraft hangar, roughly underneath the lounge area they had gathered in only a few hours ago. It was mostly dark, just strips of soft blue light here and there to mark safe passage between quinjets and other things that she couldn't name. She followed them towards the noise, now more the sound of fighting than the quiet thrum of engines.

The path led her straight out to a landing pad, an enemy quinjet, and a firefight against a stunning backdrop of predawn New York, skyscrapers peeking out of a layer of light fog and bright lights everywhere. She recognised Clint on the other side, dangerously close to the edge and an eighty or so storey drop to the street far, far below, firing arrows one after another in quick succession, bringing down invader after invader. He didn't even see her. Stark was nowhere to be seen.

A meaty hand clamped over her mouth, cutting off any noise she might have made. She struggled to release his grip, to open her mouth enough to bite him, but he was strong and powerful and fighting against him was a lost cause. Her heart sped up, too fast, she thought. Maybe she was panicking. She wasn't usually one for panicking, but then again, she was still bone tired. Maybe she was panicking.

Something pricked her neck, and pretty soon it didn't matter if she was panicking or not, because everything was spinning and blurring and falling away.

* * *

When she stirred again, she was lying on a thin mattress in the corner of an otherwise empty room. As her head slowly cleared, she hauled herself upright, the ache in her body reminding her of the crash and the Tower and Stark and – how had she gotten here? She'd fallen asleep in a room full of rich furniture in Avenger's Tower, with a wall of glass that afforded a stunning view of the whole city. This place didn't even have a window, let alone furniture. What was she doing here?

Abruptly, she remembered the brief moment of firefight she had seen, right on the edge of the world; the hand on her mouth, the moment of panic after a useless struggle. It told her nothing, other than that someone was clever enough to get past Stark's security systems.

There was a staircase across the room. Somehow, she got to her feet and limped towards it; only to be stopped some three metres back by a previously invisible wall. She touched it – cold and hard, hexagons rippling out from under her fingertips. She rolled her eyes and returned to the mattress.

Only a few minutes passed between her waking and Will descending those stairs with a storm in his eyes.

"Oh, of course it's you," she said in a scythe-like voice. "How the hell did you find me?"

"A…friend of mine tipped me off," Will replied smoothly. "She's been hunting Barton. You might have met her."

"What, that woman on the freeway? Yeah, she seemed real charming. Where's Clint?"

"Barton?" Will eyed her speculatively. "You haven't actually made a _friend_ have you, Imogen?"

"Where is he?"

"Still in Stark's tower." Will waved a hand, like it was old news. "Your friends from the freeway payed good money for the privilege of killing him themselves."

"What do you want from _me_ then?"

Will came right up to the wall then, so that the faint shapes of hexagons faded in and out in the space between them. "Quite a lot, actually. But for now, just a question. Where'd you find all those files?"

Her blood ran cold. Had he gotten a copy of her mother's things? Was everything her parents had tried to hide now in the hands of HYDRA?

How had he gotten them anyway?

"Files?" she asked, feigning confusion.

He sighed. The storm swirled. "Yes, files. Gigabytes of them, all written by Kathleen Haylock. Where did you get them?"

"Why do you care? You never cared before."

His fist hit the wall. "Because things like this don't just _appear_. Especially not files that disappeared eighteen years ago."

"I'm not telling you where I got them." She stared him down defiantly, daring him to hurt her. For a moment, he looked like he was considering it. And then, he just turned and left.


	19. Hamartia

**A/N: This chapter makes 100 pages in my Word document (what fun times I'm going to have printing that lot out at some point). Yay! Also, not many reviews in the last few chapters, where'd you all go? Which is okay, because maybe you don't have much to say, but I do live on reviews sometimes and I love to hear what you're thinking! If you need some ideas of what to say, tell me; what do you think of my plotting? Like my villains? What's your favourite chapter title so far? (I try to be so clever with them :3) What do you want to see more of?**

**There are 53 of you following right now :O That's ridiculous. That's half of 100. That's more than the amount of friends I have. Holy guacamole.**

**Enjoy! I know I sure did :D**

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**19: Hamartia**

Without any warning, the lights flickered, and then went out completely, plunging Imogen into darkness.

She'd been alone for some time now – in fact, boredom had just begun to set in. They'd taken her well off the grid, it seemed – Clint and Stark had been left a fresh trail, but had yet to follow it to her. If they were even looking.

What was she thinking? Clint would look. Of course he would. And anyway, she had much more pressing matters to attend to; like the sudden darkness, and the silence overhead (she'd grown accustomed to the sound of machines and the murmur of voices). Finding her feet and then a wall, she followed it in the direction of the invisible wall that she'd failed to find a way past. She didn't realise it was gone until her shin hit the corner of the stairs.

That was the problem with high-tech prisons, she mused as she stumbled up the steps. Your power goes out, and suddenly you've got a much bigger problem than where you keep your torch.

There was a heavy door at the top of the stairs that wasn't locked, leading into a deserted hallway. There wasn't even emergency lighting in this place, just weak sunlight filtering in through small windows high on the wall. A basement, she guessed, turning left on a whim.

Straight into a small army of soldiers. The woman from the freeway was there, in the middle of them all, a tablet in her hands. There were HYDRA agents slumped in a pile against one wall, motionless and untied. The sight of them sent a shiver down her spine; she scanned their faces, but didn't see Will. She wasn't sure if she was relieved or cursed.

The woman looked up, eyes widening as she recognised Imogen. Both froze. "She's the one!" the woman called a moment later, springing into action. "Get her!" She gestured wildly and her soldiers advanced. Coming to her senses, Imogen turned tail and ran.

She wasn't very fast, despite ditching her limp in favour of speed, ignoring the pain shooting through her ankle with every step. Eventually, it gave out completely, and she came crashing to the ground in a heap. Soldiers surrounded her in seconds and pulled her to her feet, not caring if they had to drag her when her leg gave out again and again as they retraced their steps back to the woman.

"Barton's accomplice, aren't you?" she asked.

"What of it?" Imogen spat back.

"Interesting," was all she got in reply. They dragged her up to the surface, to one of their trademark black vans, and bundled her inside.

* * *

There was a bag on her head and a long walk, this time with the assistance of two of the soldiers, and then a sparse bedroom and a locked door. Imogen took the chance to examine her ankle – hot, swollen, and an angry red colour. She looked away before too long, stretching out on the bed and letting the last few days have a chance to catch up with her again.

Despite being in the hands of the enemy, before long she dropped off to sleep, and did not stir for quite a while.

* * *

The woman, their leader, was shaking her shoulder. Imogen woke with a stark, opening her eyes to find the woman standing over her, and sat up so quickly she almost head-butted her. The woman smiled. "Good to see you awake. For a minute, we thought you might be dead."

"What a shame," Imogen muttered, rubbing at her eyes.

"Yes," the woman agreed. "A shame."

Imogen stood slowly, aware of her numerous injuries. The movement still hurt despite her care; not that she would let this woman or any of her _friends_ know that. "Who the hell are you anyway?" she asked.

"My name is Lena. You're Imogen, right? Imogen Haylock."

"And if I am?"

Lena laughed. "Don't bother. We found your name in many of your mother's files, and SHIELD's. You have quite the record of probations."

Imogen huffed a sigh. "What do you want?" she asked, if only to skip the discussion about her past incriminations.

Lena paused, considering something. "Would you walk with me?" she asked, gesturing to the door.

Imogen glanced down at her ankle, still swollen as it was. "I'd rather stay here, thanks."

"That wasn't actually a request." Lena took her arm, steering her towards the door. There were two men outside; one shoved a crutch towards her as they exited the room and she took it reluctantly.

"Do you know what was in the files HYDRA recently acquired?" Lena asked as they walked.

Imogen shrugged. "I have a good idea. Mostly science reports and stuff on their Soldier."

"Yes, the Soldier. Interesting, but not important right now. What about her private experiments?"

"I know they were there."

Lena glanced at her. "Most of them pertained to _you_, Imogen."

She thought back to Murphy, that night when she'd…_visited_ with Natasha. He'd said her mother had used her in experiments. She'd chosen not to listen to him. Maybe he'd been right. "I know."

"They're very interesting experiments," Lena continued. "We had a deal with your brother, to leave you alone, but then we read those files and…" She stopped to reconsider. "You weren't happy in HYDRA's hands, were you?"

"No one's happy as a prisoner," Imogen pointed out.

"No," Lena agreed. "Besides, they would never have known what _potential _you had. Not like we do."

"What?" Imogen frowned in confusion.

Lena pushed through a pair of double doors into a lab. "Your mother's experiments were brilliant. Unprecedented work in the field of cryogenics, among other things. She was working towards a way for people to be frozen and unfrozen without the need for extra chemicals to prevent cell damage, and she was almost there, thanks to you."

"So, what, I can't freeze to death?"

Lena smiled. It didn't quite reach her eyes. "We have no idea. The formula was never perfected. We have no idea what her work in memory did to you either. But the potential outcomes…they're amazing."

"Why are you telling me this?" Imogen asked. They stopped, now standing in the very centre of the lab. There were several scientists scattered around the room, all deep in their work except one. Lena beckoned to him and he hurried over, a bright smile on his face.

"This is Mathew," she said, patting him on the shoulder. "He'll be taking care of you from now on."

"This is her?" he asked. Lena nodded, gave him one last pat, and left them. Imogen glared at him. He shifted uncomfortably, quailing under her gaze.

"What am I doing here?" she asked finally with a sigh, unable to stand his fidgeting any longer.

"Well…" Looking relieved to have something to talk about, he took her arm and led her over to the large bench he had been working at before, gesturing to a chair which she took gratefully. His bench was full of clutter; as he talked, he set to sorting through it, looking for something. "I've been researching Kathleen Haylock's work, trying to finish it. Lena's asking for it, I don't know why. Anyway, it helps if I have past test subjects to study as well and uh…well, you're the only one. Sorry."

"So I'm a lab rat."

He looked uncertain. "Well, I'm supposed to run you through initiation too," he offered, like that made it any better.

She picked up her crutch again. "I'm leaving."

"That's not a good idea." She sent him a withering look. "There are men outside ready to grab you if you even think about escaping."

"I can take a few idiot soldiers."

"Your leg is busted; even if you overcome them, there are easily twenty others around." He reached out and pulled the crutch from her hand, placing it ell out of reach. She didn't even think to hold onto it. "Good luck running without that."

Imogen slumped back down in her chair. She didn't feel like running and fighting anyway. Her whole body ached, and now her stomach was rumbling too. "You got any food?" she asked.

Mathew paused, and then moved a pile of papers to reveal a half-crushed pizza box. Taking it from him, she found half a pizza inside, topping partially stuck to the lid of the box and stone cold. "It's from this morning," he assured her. "Shouldn't give you food poisoning or anything."

"Morning?" She bit into a slice. "Pizza for breakfast?"

He smiled. "_Early_ this morning," he corrected himself. "Before breakfast early. I had coffee for breakfast."

"That's so much better," she said sarcastically. He didn't dignify her with an answer. The pizza disappeared quickly, though once it was gone she was still hungry. Mathew refused to give her any more food, too consumed in his work. For a while, she considered leaving despite the guards and going in search of a kitchen or something, but ditched the idea when Mathew started talking about guards and tasers and guns (how he knew what she was thinking would forever be a mystery).

"This is going to be a really boring friendship if you're just going to make me sit here the whole time," she commented about an hour in, staring at the ceiling.

"We're not friends," Mathew replied in his distracted voice (she had it pinned already; when he wasn't paying attention, his words came rough and careless, with a bit of a lilt at the end that could almost be mistaken for cheer).

"Really? I thought it was going really well. Thought I was really getting to know you."

He sighed. "We're not _allowed_ to be friends."

"If you follow rules like that, I don't think I want to be."

"Good."

Another scientist approached, immediately catching his attention. "You ready?" she asked. Mathew nodded, and followed her off to another part of the lab. Imogen watched them go, and then leant forward, her eyes searching his work space for any kind of weapon. Keeping an eye on him, she lifted paper stacks and random bits and pieces in her search, but still came up with nothing sharp or even remotely pointy.

"What are you doing?" Mathew asked; she looked up to find him and the other scientist standing over her.

"Looking for food," she replied smoothly, slumping back in her chair. "I'm starving."

"I told you, I don't have anything." He motioned the woman forward. Imogen sat up straight at the sight of the needle in her hand.

"No," she said immediately.

"It's just a blood sample," he replied, in what she guessed was supposed to be a reassuring voice.

"No," she said. They didn't stop. "This is illegal, you know." She took a step back, and then another, upending the chair and stumbling over it. _Damn it._ Mathew pounced, pushing her to the ground. She threw him off and scrambled up, half limping, half running across the lab, ignoring the throbbing, constant pain in her foot. He tackled her from behind, let her roll onto her back, and then pinned her down. She bucked and struggled, almost threw him off, and then the woman with the needle appeared again, this time with a knife as well. As soon as it touched her neck, she froze, her body refusing to move any more as her worst memories flashed through her head. Panic coursed through her veins, making her heart speed and stomach clench and twist. For a moment she thought she might be sick.

"Sorry," Mathew said softly as the woman knelt beside them with her needle. Imogen stared at the ceiling, trying not to feel the pinch in her arm or see the blood come out.

Mathew gave her the crutch back after that, when the panic finally faded and she found the strength to pull herself up from where she'd been sitting, propped against a desk. She took it with shaking hands, cursing their show of weakness, and limped over to a couch behind the woman's desk, curling up on the soft cushions. Neither were on that side of the lab, and the other scientists had long since left, which suited Imogen just fine; the lights were off everywhere except over Mathew's space, leaving her a dark, quiet corner to hide in; for a moment, she considered searching for weapons again, but the very thought of it left her dizzy and drained. She'd never reacted well to needles, or knives at her throat. Both together were…

Too much? No, not too much. Surely not. She refused to be that easy to subdue.

Where was Clint? Maybe he was near. That would be nice, if unrealistic. Secret companies tended to be very good at hiding. Or maybe he was far, far away. Maybe he was dead, hard as he was to kill (she could testify to that). They had been pretty hell-bent on killing him, had even paid HYDRA off. And then taken her from HYDRA, probably putting Will and his people right back on Barton's tail.

She sat up. "Mathew?" she called across the room, forcing her voice to be normal, to be strong. He looked up. "Have they caught Barton?"

He looked confused. Maybe he didn't know about her travels with Clint. "I don't think I'm allowed to tell you that," he replied, running a hand through his thick hair.

"You owe me at least this one thing." She stared him down – once again, he couldn't hold up under her steady gaze. For all his show of bravado earlier, Mathew didn't really have it in him to be an evil scientist. A slightly unethical one, maybe, but not evil. He was too soft, too easily reasoned with.

"No," he said. "The Hawk's gone to ground, and Lena needed her forces elsewhere."

She lay back down. He continued his work.

* * *

"Here."

Clint looked up at the tablet Stark had just shoved in front of his face, seeing a picture of the woman that had attacked them on the freeway and a _lot _of writing. "What am I looking at?" he asked, rubbing at his tired eyes.

"You are looking at the new Nick Fury of the super spy world," Tony declared, taking the tablet back and scrolling through. "Is he really dead by the way? I've been meaning to ask, since Cap won't tell me anything and Natasha isn't answering my calls…"

"I don't know. Who's this woman?"

"Oh. Right." Stark took to pacing. "Lena Fischer, ex-SHIELD, CIA, FBI…practically every super sneaky government job there is. Now runs her own organisation, something called INTEL, which now aspires to be the next SHIELD and fill the gap that's been opened in global security."

"They're not the people that took Imogen," Clint reminded him.

"Yeah, but they did take out a nearby HYDRA base we didn't know about until now, and look who got caught crossing the street." The tablet was now showing a grainy picture of Imogen's brother and one of his men. Clint found the energy to wake up a bit.

"Any chance she's still at the base?" he asked. Tony shook his head.

"Agent Hill already volunteered to go and have a look around. Nothing but a pile of HYDRA bodies."

"So she's with this INTEL."

Tony nodded.


	20. Join, Or Die

**A/N: So, bad news: this is a pretty short chapter. Shortest chapter yet. Good news: I'm pretty excited to write the next chapter and it's a Saturday night...meaning you might just see it in a few hours. Failing that, tomorrow. Yay?**

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**20: Join Or Die**

Three days later, Lena returned, looking a little worse for wear (though in no way less in intimidating). Mathew had been busy creating a vial of…something; there were discarded versions of it all over the lab. Imogen wasn't sure if he'd actually slept since she met him or if he ran solely on coffee and leftover pizza, of which there was a disturbing amount to be found in the lab.

As soon as Lena arrived, he handed over his creation for examination. She looked pleased with his work. Imogen was just curious. Their conversation came to an abrupt end as she approached though; apparently she wasn't allowed to know any of the details.

"Imogen." Lena sounded pleasant enough. "I was hoping to see you here."

Imogen shrugged. "Not many other places for me to be," she replied.

"Mathew's been showing you around, right?"

He had, in fact, shown her some more of the base, though the two armed guards that tailed them wherever they went seemed to put him off any extensive tours. Food and showers and training rooms were about the extent of what she had seen. Other than that, she'd just spent an inordinate amount of time either in the lab or the room they'd given her, unable to go anywhere wthout Mathew.

"Sort of," she said. "He's been busy."

"Yes," Lena said thoughtfully. "Making this." She gave the vial one last, appreciative glance, and then returned it to the scientist. "Come with me."

They left the lab, entering a long white hallway that was only vaguely familiar to Imogen. Not that she was paying any attention to her surroundings, too busy with her displeasure in Lena's tendancy to go for a walk when wanting to have a conversation. Her ankle still wasn't good to walk on, though she'd ditched the crutch, still made moving around difficult.

"I hope you appreciate Mathew's hard work," Lena said once they were away from his lab. "He's one of my best scientists."

"What?"

"Well, he did all this work for you."

"Do I get to know the details?" Imogen asked with an irritated sigh. "Because I'm really not interested in riddles."

Lena smiled. "I like you Imogen. Honest and straightforward. There aren't many people in this business with those qualities."

"Not really sure I want to be in this kind of business at all," Imogen muttered under her breath.

"You've been a part of SHIELD and HYDRA for, what, eight years? I think it's a little late for second thoughts, don't you?"

"I think you should get to the point."

Lena stopped. "I'd like to offer you a job, Imogen. Here, at INTEL. I think you could be a valuable aasset in the field – maybe even in command in the future, if you prove trustworthy."

Change sides again? She could do it. She'd done it before. But that was hardly even an option in her mind – there was something about Lena and INTEL that she didn't like, something that reminded her of HYDRA. Not to mention that they wanted to kill Clint, the only friend she actually had in the world. She'd grown to like their two-man team, stumbling through unexpected encounters and improvised escapes. It suited her, in a way structured missions and chains of command never had.

"No thanks," she said, wiping the smile right off Lena's face. "What, you expected me to say yes? Are you sure you've read my file?"

"It's a real shame you won't work with us," Lena said. "A real waste of talent." She sighed, and then waved the men behind them forward. "Lock her up. I'll decide what to do about her later."

* * *

Some time later, Mathew slipped through the door, looking more nervous than Imogen had ever seen him. She sat up straight, on the edge of the bed, eyeing him suspiciously; as far as she knew, Lena planned to kill her whenever she next found the time, and Mathew wasn't an executioner.

"What do you want?" she asked.

"They, uh…they said they were going to kill you."

"Yeah, apparently not wanting to work here is enough to condemn someone," she said dryly.

"That doesn't bother you?" he asked curiously.

"Well, I'd rather _not_ die, but seeing as I can't even walk, I don't have much choice. Besides, I believe in my friend. He'll get here before she kills me. He's just a bit slow sometimes." She could practically see the cogs turning in his head. "Why are you here?"

"What if…I helped you?" he replied slowly.

Imogen laughed. "How are _you_ going to help me?"

Mathew shrugged. "I could leave the door unlocked. Tell you the way out of here. Or I could send a message to Barton, which is what I was going to do, seeing as you can't actually go anywhere fast."

"Okay then." She paused. "_Why_ do you want to help me?"

Mathew looked nervous again, reaching slowly into his pocket. "I'll make you a deal," he said.

"I'm listening."

He pulled out the vial he'd shown Lena earlier. "I want to finish my research. We were supposed to give you this when you accepted, but you didn't so…"

She stood up and limped forward a step. "What is it?" she asked, eyeing the clear liquid within.

"Everything your mother missed in her experiments – maybe what she was working towards. I don't know what it will do. Probably nothing. I don't think anyone would use their own child in experiments that could have drastic effects."

"You want to give me _that_-" She pointed at the vial, "-in exchange for my freedom."

"Yes."

"And I'm just supposed to believe that you'll send that message."

"Have I given you a reason not to trust me?"

"Plenty. Just working here is a reason."

"Please, Imogen." He looked desperate, voice pleading. "I just want to finish my research. I want to help you. I don't even care about Lena and INTEL. I only ever joined because I couldn't get into SHIELD's science division."

She hesitated, considering it. _Actually _considering it. It was a way out, and she wasn't seeing many others. Lena could be here at any second to finish her off, and she had no idea where Clint was, even if she had faith that he would find her. And despite the incident with the knife, Mathew in the last three days had never come across as anything except curious, obsessed with his work, with finding out the truth, what her mother was trying to achieved – the same thing she had been chasing when she came across this whole mystery.

"Okay," she said, taking a deep breath.

Immediately, he pulled everything he needed out of his pocket. "You should sit down," he advised, and after a moment, she complied, sitting back down on the edge of the bed. Mathew took a seat beside her, rolling her sleeve up. She turned away immediately, staring at the wall and trying to ignore his very existence. Something cold touched her arm, followed by the familiar pinch of a needle.

Fire ran fast through her veins, setting her whole body alight. She glanced at Mathew, her vision blurring and head spinning, faster and faster. Vaguely, she felt herself falling, felt him catch her before she slid to the floor, and then there was nothing.


	21. Freezing Point

**A/N: This is the second-last chapter of Sparrow o.o Never thought I'd get this far but heeere we are.**

**Enjoyyy**

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**21: Freezing Point**

"This is it?"

"Are you questioning my ability to navigate?"

Clint shrugged, not in the mood for an argument. Stark had baited him the entire way here, but nothing was biting, not if Clint had anything to say about it. Now, they stood outside a clothing store, and he was eyeing a display of Avenger's merchandise in the front window sceptically. It was a first, as far as he knew, for an enemy to have a small Avengers shrine in their front window. Most just tried to shoot them.

It being the middle of the night, the store was closed – it only took Tony and Clint a minute to hack security and pick the lock respectively. "You sure this isn't a trap?" Clint asked as they got in way too easily for his liking.

"What, you want to go home?"

The archer huffed a sigh and led the way, stepping softly out of habit. He didn't know why he was even bothering – Tony's steps in the suit were heavy and echoed loudly in the large store, alerting everyone around that there was an intruder (if there even was anyone around, seeing as they'd made it to the back of the store without seeing one sign of life).

"So I guess we start looking for a secret door now?" Tony asked. Clint nodded, and they separated, Tony to the left and Clint to the right.

It was Jarvis who found the door in the end, his heat sensors picking up the man guarding it. By the time Clint joined them, the man was on the floor, the fight over with barely a sound. "Am I going to get any of the action?" he joked as they passed into an elevator, adjusting the arrow he already had nocked as the doors closed.

"Let me take you out to a bar or something, you can get all the action you want." Clint wasn't sure if he was joking or not. Probably both. Tony Stark would never refuse a good night out.

The elevator asked for their identities. A moment later, Stark was in and down they went. It was an old lift, creaky and slow, jerking to a halt and taking several long, tense seconds to open. The loud wailing of alarms bled through the doors – their presence had not gone unnoticed.

Finally, the doors opened, revealing a small army of soldiers. Clint fired as soon as he had a shot, then shot again and again, falling into his usual, quick rhythm, snapping off as many shots as he could before it came to close quarters. Iron Man stepped in front of him, shielding him from bullets as he continued to shoot around the armour, picking them off one by one. It didn't take long for the soldiers to abandon their guns, realising bullets weren't doing anything, and approach.

The two Avengers stood firm.

* * *

Imogen was cold. Freezing. She wasn't shivering, wasn't even a little uncomfortable with the drastic change in temperature. She just _knew_ she was cold.

Confused, that's what she was. And annoyed at herself for fainting. If she _had _fainted. From past experience, she knew fainting to be a lot more disorientating than this sudden snap to consciousness. And fainting didn't make you cold.

Her eyes flicked open. Mathew was there still, sitting on the floor by the door messing around with a phone. She watched him for a while, not sure if getting up was a good idea, and then tried it anyway, never really one for caution.

He looked up when he heard her shift, standing and tucking his phone into a pocket. "I sent the message," he told her as she sat up and leant against the wall.

"I don't believe you," she grumbled in reply. "And if Clint isn't here within the hour, I'm _really_ not going to believe you."

"That's not much time," he said. She shrugged.

"He's had four days."

"Imogen." Mathew sounded uncertain. "Don't freak out or anything, but…your hands…" She gave him a weird look, and then glanced down.

And stopped. And stared for a moment.

Her hands, and even most of her forearms, were completely covered in ice. Just a thin layer of it, clinging to her skin in smooth, circling patterns, cracking and falling away with even the smallest of movements only to creep back again when she was still.

Don't freak out. Right. She took a deep breath, and then another, forcing herself to stay calm. "You want to explain why I'm covered in ice?" she asked.

"It's called cryokinesis," Mathew replied, sitting down next to her. "Creation and control of ice."

"And you had no idea this was how your experiment would turn out?"

Mathew shook his head. "I didn't think it was possible. I knew Lena was hoping for something like this – HYDRA and SHIELD both have enhanced people working for them, and she's desperate to catch up."

"And you didn't think to mention that before?"

"It shouldn't have been possible." Imogen huffed a sigh. "It's only latent," Mathew added. "I was watching it. Took a good hour just to cover your hands. From what I've heard, actual superpowers tend to be more…explosive."

"That makes everything _so much better_," she bit back sarcastically. She wasn't really that angry about it – just surprised. It wasn't every day you woke up covered in ice. As to whether she liked this new ability or not, would remain to be seen. It was little more than an annoyance at the moment.

Somewhere outside, an alarm started to whine. Imogen jumped, surprised, and then climbed to her feet.

"Where are you going?" Mathew asked, scrambling after her.

"Wherever Clint is," she replied, already halfway to the door.

"You don't even know where you're going!" He followed her doggedly, out the door and down the hall, which was blessedly devoid of all life.

"I'll figure it out."

"Wait!"

She stopped and turned, glaring at him impatiently, the ice falling from her hands. "What?"

"With all my research, Lena could give every single one of her field agent's powers like yours."

"And what, you're just going to let me walk in there and destroy it all?

"Let me get out of here with you, and I'll help."

"What, you don't want to work here at all now?"

"Things around here are…different," he sighed, looking frustrated. "More secrets. More people dying out in the field. Hunting SHIELD agents – hunting Avengers – just for the job the used to have. I don't like feeling like I'm in danger all the time."

"Wait, hunting SHIELD agents?" she asked, more interested than angry now.

Mathew nodded. "Lena wants to be number one in global security. HYDRA's broken and SHIELD is scrambling to reform. She thinks if she kills them all, then there'll be no one but those pockets of HYDRA agents to challenge her – and for now, she's made so many deals with them that they think she's a solid ally."

"So if we destroy all that research, she'll be set back to square one," Imogen said thoughtfully.

"Exactly."

"Alright then." She took a breath, and squared her shoulders. "Quickly though."

* * *

"Are you done yet?" Imogen asked, ducking down out of view as another two soldiers ran past outside the lab doors.

Mathew was somewhere in the other side of the lab, hidden by desks and the mess of files and papers they'd spent five minutes spreading around. "Almost," came his reply. He was rigging something – a bomb, she assumed. She was fine just standing guard while he did it, whatever it was he was doing, as long as he _hurried up about it._

"Done," Mathew said, appearing suddenly and climbing out of the mess to her. "We've got about three minutes."

"Doesn't give us much time to get clear, does it?"

"Hey, I taught myself explosives. No one's perfect," Mathew argued. "Are we good to go?"

She glanced out to the hallway; it seemed empty. "Why did you even have to teach yourself that?" she asked as they slipped out the door, her eyes on Mathew.

A click. "Get back in the lab," came Lena's voice from behind her. Imogen met Mathew's eyes, rolled her own, and then turned to find a gun pointed right at her head, Lena's face grim behind it. "The lab," she repeated. "Go. Now."

Imogen stood firm, defiant. Mathew was more sensible, catching her arm and pulling her back into the lab. Lena followed, gun never wavering.

"Mathew, I really wish you hadn't done this," she said finally, when she had them good and trapped. "INTEL won't be the same without you." Without another thought, she fired, gunshot echoing in the large, round room. There was a choked, surprised sound, and then a crash; too late, Imogen turned and found Mathew already on the ground, already almost dead, a bullet in his heart.

She froze. She wanted to go to him, like you were supposed to, to help him even though it was obviously too late, but she didn't, just stood and stared and then slowly turned back to Lena with anger swirling slowly in her gut and ice growing on her fingertips. She could feel its frozen touch, not just on her fingers, but on her arms, her face, creeping up the back of her neck.

"You didn't need to kill him," she said. "From what I hear, you haven't _needed_ to kill a lot of people."

"I kill only when necessary," Lena replied calmly, like they were discussing the weather. "Mathew for example. He died for the good of INTEL – if I let him go, who knows what sensitive information he could sell to the wrong people."

Her hands became colder and colder. _Still not cold enough_. Her breath came faster with the effort – the ice was too slow, wasn't strong enough. The lab could blow at any second. "You're a liar," she said. "And I _hate_ liars." Lena smiled. Colder, colder. Freezing. Below freezing.

Something beeped and ticked, off in the mess where Mathew had built his bomb. Lena glanced towards it, momentarily distracted. Imogen took her chance and leapt forward, grabbing her arm and pushing the gun away. Lena screamed as soon as their skin made contact, dropping the gun and pulling away, clutching her arm. The skin was a bright, angry red where Imogen had touched her. "What?!" she gasped, staring at her arm.

"Ice burns, you know," Imogen spat. Lena gaped. It was her turn to smile. "You should try being nicer to people. Maybe then they'd be less likely to betray you." And she pressed her hands to Lena's face.

* * *

Clint was lost until he heard the screaming close by, leading him to the lab. It cut off abruptly just as he got close. Imogen pushed through the door a moment later, looking panicked. "Imogen!" he called, drawing her attention.

She looked at him for a moment with wide eyes, and then hurried over, grabbing his arm and dragging him back the way he had come. "We've gotta go," she gasped, rounding a corner. "Mathew rigged the lab – he said three minutes till it blows so…could be any second…"

"What?" He took the lead, dragging her now – she was limping, he noticed. "Who's Mathew?"

"Tell you la-" There was a boom as Mathew's bomb finally exploded, drowning her out. Clint grabbed her and pulled her to the ground as a wave of heat passed over them and the acrid smell of smoke filled the air.

"You're really cold," he gasped once it had passed, helping her up. Her hands were freezing – he hadn't noticed it before, through his sleeve, but now… "How are you so cold?"

"I, uh…" She shook her head, glancing back towards the lab. "It's a long story."

Clint eyed her. "We get out of here," he said. "And then you tell me everything. Deal?"

She took a moment to catch her breath, to work through it all again, and then nodded. "Deal."


	22. Sparrow

**22: Sparrow**

Darkness. Just darkness. Dark and cold and empty. Deeply, deeply wrong.

Shadows, dancing and flickering, brushing past or skirting around, giving her a wide berth She was a shadow to, but she was still – while they were like trees, she was a statue, unbent, unwavering. Made of cold, hard stone.

Dreaming. Dying. Dreaming? Yes. Of dark and cold. Of gunshots and footsteps and the guttural, desperate gasps of the dying. Of shadows, and shadows, and shadows, one after the other, some marching, some fleeing. Some chasing, some falling.

The shadows danced and chased each other, in and out of her dreams. Shadows hunting shadows…and she was the darkest of them all.

* * *

She felt well-rested for once, if a little disorientated by the dream. So many shadows, and she had no idea where they had come from. With a groan, she dragged herself out of bed and dressed, stopping only for a second to admire the view of New York the room afforded before venturing out into the rest of the tower.

It wasn't hard to find Clint and the other residents of Avengers Tower; Imogen just followed the sound of their voices to a big, open living area at the end of the hall. This one was more welcoming than the one downstairs by the lab – light, open, almost like a family space with a full kitchen and dining table and sitting room and all. Natasha, she realised with some surprise, was in the kitchen, cooking something with the help of a woman Imogen recognised as Pepper Potts, the CEO of Stark Industries (who _wouldn't_ recognise her – her face was everywhere these days). Clint was darting about, being of no use at all. Tony was seated at an island bench with two other men, their backs turned to her, all three engaged in a conversation she couldn't hear.

There was a bark, and then Lucky came trotting out from under the table to greet her, panting happily. Everyone turned at the noise; Natasha offered her a small smile and turned back to her cooking, the conversation at the bench died away, and Clint left the two women in favour of dragging her into the group, with a mischievous glint and an arm thrown around her shoulders.

"Nice to see you alive and well, Sparrow," Tony said in way of greeting. "Thought you might be dead, you slept so long."

"Tony!" Pepper turned, looking affronted. He waved her away without even looking.

"Sparrow?" Imogen asked, ignoring his second comment.

"Yeah, sparrow. Like a hawk, but smaller and much less intimidating."

"This is Imogen," Clint cut in, before she could pursue the topic. Just this once, she let it go, let him have his moment. "Imogen, this is Pepper, Bruce and Steve." He pointed to each in turn. She recognised the man on the end now – Captain America, whose face and shield were also everywhere you looked these days, especially in the news, along with Natasha. He'd been the one fighting in DC after all, the one who sank three helicarriers into the Potomac. Bruce she didn't recognise at all, though she had a feeling that he wasn't here on Stark Industries business.

"I hear you've had some trouble with HYDRA," Steve said politely.

"I hear you've had some too," she replied not so politely, a smile playing on her lips.

"Nothing he couldn't handle, right Steve?" Clint chimed in.

Steve shrugged. "I had plenty of help." He glanced at Natasha, who didn't bother turning to acknowledge him, though she no doubt had heard every word of the conversation so far.

"You should give yourself more credit, Cap," Tony said. "Modesty is so old-fashioned."

"Well that explains why you don't have any." That was Clint again, as he wandered away to bother the girls.

"Are you an Avenger?" Imogen asked Bruce.

He hesitated, and Tony jumped to fill the silence, slapping Bruce heartily on the shoulder. "Bruce here is our resident green rage monster," he explained. "He keeps the burglars at bay." Neither Steve nor Bruce seemed particularly happy with his answer, but neither sought to contradict him. Imogen was lost for words for a moment. The Hulk; she might have guessed. Though she hadn't expected the Hulk to be so quiet and calm and able to disappear from the conversation whenever he fancied.

"Must suck," was all she said eventually. Bruce almost laughed.

"You get used to it," he replied with the warmest smile she'd ever seen on a man that was supposed to be a monster.

"So then Sparrow, I hear you have superpowers now," Tony said, leaning back casually.

"What?" Steve snapped forward, glancing between them.

She shrugged. "Not really," she replied.

"She is _not_ becoming an Avenger, Tony," Clint threw over his shoulder as he leant around Nat.

"Cryokinesis, right?" Bruce asked, ignoring the thinly-veiled insults now being thrown between Tony and Clint.

She nodded. "Latent. Useless, really."

"No power like that is useless," Steve interjected. "You've just got to learn to use it to your advantage."

"Yeah, I'll get right onto that." She gave him a wry smile. "I'm not interested in all that 'protecting the world' stuff anyway. You guys seem to have it covered."

Steve shrugged easily. "It's your choice."

_Your choice_. Just like that, like the flick of a switch, she knew for sure that she'd chosen the right side to be on.

* * *

"Home sweet home," Clint declared as he entered the apartment. "As long as you don't steal my dog, or run away or anything."

Imogen followed him in, finding herself in a combined kitchen and living room, with an old sofa and large TV with its mess of cables and consoles and not much else in the way of furniture. Even the walls were bare – the only decoration to be found was an old bow, predictably. Through their respective doors, she could see two bedrooms and a bathroom, all just as sparse as the main living area.

"Nice place," she commented.

Clint nodded. "It's a bit bare. Haven't lived here in a while. I'm sure you can do something with it. Best part is, you don't even have to pay rent or anything."

She turned to look at him with eyebrows raised. "How did _you_ score the only free apartment in Brooklyn?"

"I own the building," he replied, without missing a beat.

"Why do you own an apartment building?"

Lucky trotted in, stealing Clint's attention for a moment as he crouched down to give the dog a good scratch. "Nice to have you back in New York, Pizza Dog," he murmured. Lucky's tail thumped against the floorboards in agreement.

"So if you're giving me your apartment," Imogen said, leaning down to pat the dog as well. "Where are you going? Back to the farm?"

Clint shook his head. "Got some Avengers stuff to do."

"Anything I get to know about?" He shook his head and she sighed, leaving the dog in favour of the couch. "So I'm just babysitting your dog while you run around being a superhero and all that."

"You don't want Lucky?" he asked.

She tugged at a loose strand of hair, pulling it back impatiently. "That's not what I'm saying."

"Well good. I don't know what I'd do with him otherwise."

"Why'd you even bring him here in the first place?"

"Thought you'd like the company." She sighed, and then nodded, a small smile escaping onto her face. "Seriously though," he continued. "Do whatever you want. Get out of the spy game, if that's what you want to do. Get a normal job. Go to school. Make some friends." He paused, stood up as Lucky wandered off. "There's plenty of money around here somewhere. Should be enough to keep you going. There's always more. People in the building all get together on the roof on Friday nights too; you should go. They're nice."

He glanced at the door then, like he was thinking about leaving. She stood abruptly, and threw her arms around his neck, burying her face into his shoulder as he returned the hug two-fold, almost crushing her. "Thank you Clint," she mumbled, voice muffled by his shirt.

"Hey, no problem kid," he replied, reaching up to ruffle her hair with one hand. She pushed him away, grinning.

"Go on then. Hate to keep you from all the fangirls outside the tower."

He laughed, and turned to go, pausing at the door to give Lucky one more pat. "Stay out of trouble, yeah?" he said over his shoulder, eyeing her.

She could only shake her head in reply. "No promises," she told him. Clint didn't press; he was fighting a losing battle anyway. Trouble would always find her; and in a way, she would always look for it.

* * *

**A/N: This is the final chapter; Sparrow is DONE. I'm pretty proud of myself xD I'm not very good at finishing things, so I feel preeetty damn good about finishing this, after having it in the works for almost two years.**

**I want to take this time to inform you that THERE WILL BE A SEQUEL. It is titled Flicker and will be set more or less directly after the events of Age of Ultron (with a feeew adjustments to canon, because there are things that just don't work for me in the movie). I don't know when I'll start working on that - for a while now, I've been planning to move on to something original once I finished Sparrow, which I've been putting all my writing time towards for about three months now...buuut then again if I have a lot of muse for Flicker, I might as well write that first. Basically, I'm looking at anything from a week to three or four months before I start posting again xD**

**In the meantime, if you wanna recommend fic or chat or give me ideas for Flicker or anything at all, you can always PM me on here; or I can also be found at herebesparrows or ijustwantedtodream on tumblr or JustALittleBirdy on Fictionpress (where I'll be posting regularly if I do actually start on original fiction for a while).**

**Finally, thankyou to all of you who have favourited and followed and reviewed :D I love you guys so much for that support - I don't think I've ever had so many people read something I've written and it means a lot to me. Hopefully I'll see you all again in Flicker? ^.^ Until then, goodbye!**


	23. Author's Note

**Quick note to tell you all that Flicker has been reposted, as the old version was a little broken. You can read it here:**

** s/11660523/1/Flicker**

**Enjoy reading! :)**


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